The Bulging Crisis In My Pants
by officiallymarooned
Summary: This thing with Derek, it's still pretty much a work in progress, but all the effort is finally starting to pay off. Derek even moved into the flat he shares with Jackson. So it's only appropriate that Kate Argent, Derek's crazy ex-fiancé, should show up right about now, hellbent on destroying Derek's life and any chance he has of happiness with Stiles.
1. Chapter 1

** _Upper East Side, Manhattan  
8:00 AM_ **

Stiles wakes up with a start to the loud blaring of his alarm, swatting it silent immediately - and sweating like he has been running all night. Which actually he had just been doing, _in his dream_ - but that doesn't count, does it? Lately he has been having recurring dreams of being chased through the woods by a big, black, hairy creature with red glowing eyes. He blames it on all the stress. His senior year back at Beacon Hills High School had been anything but a pleasant experience, and he is glad he can finally put it all behind him.

The whole experience had been a completely nerve-wrecking one. Pressure had been mounting from the very beginning and even without the whole Scott-Allison _official_ breakup fiasco, life would have been just as hellish. Scott had begun drinking shortly after the split and Stiles, ever the good friend, would be the one dragging him home at odd hours in the night from obscure, shady bars and deserted alleys - all the while putting on a completely fake facade for both their sakes so suspicions would not be drawn, and covering up Scott's tracks for him. Of course that hadn't been the worst of it. Which would have been when Melissa had actually come to know about it all, then his dad, then their friends, then the entire school, then practically the whole frickin' town. Scott had been involved in a drunken brawl and had been stabbed nearly fatally. Fingers had inevitably been pointed thereafter, and although Scott had obviously borne the brunt of it, enough frowns and disappointed head-shakes had been directed at him too.

Allison had stopped talking to him after that, and he knows that she blames him for not doing anything while Scott went on his downward spiral. He blames himself too. And of course his dad would still look at him with the tiniest bit of suspicion despite all his assurances that he hadn't been drinking with Scott. Jackson and Lydia's split shortly after had affected him to a lesser degree, but it too added up in the ultimate tally of _stress-inducing events_. Jackson had only become more of a douche after that, thereby making everyone else's lives just that much more unbearable. Stiles had tried asking Lydia out then after literally weeks of mental prepping, which in the ultimate scheme of things had proven not only to have been a complete waste of time but also a cause for even greater anguish at the prompt rejection he had received. Lydia, meanwhile, hadn't wasted a single second moping over the breakup and had buried her nose in her books for the remainder of the academic session. She got into MIT, unsurprisingly. Allison was accepted into Yale, and Scott settled for Beacon Hills Community College.

Stiles being Stiles, had practically applied to literally every single college in the country. Of the several acceptance letters he had received, he chose Columbia University, which is how he found himself here now - sweaty and alone in bed in a posh apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It had come as a startling surprise when Jackson had rather timidly asked him if he wanted to share his apartment with him. Stiles now wonders if Jackson had actually paid a rather large _donation_ to get into Columbia but decides to atleast grant the guy the benefit of the doubt. After considering the pros and the cons of the arrangement, he had accepted the offer. After all, Jackson had asked rather nicely and perhaps they both could be better off with atleast having a familiar face around in a completely new city. Also, it wasn't like his financial situation is in any spectacularly sound condition. Unlike Jackson, he could only afford to study here because of his scholarship.

Today, however, is the first day of class and he has no time to be rolling around in bed all day, reminiscing about his _halcyon highschool days_ at Beacon Hills. He groans as his stiff neck protests against his attempts to roll off the bed and slumps back into the pillow with a sigh.

"Jackson!" he calls out but receives no reply and wonders if the guy had ever decided that he had partied enough and returned last night. Probably not.

He stumbles off the bed and goes straight to the kitchen where he sets up a pot of coffee before marching off to the shower. He wonders if he should do something about his stiff morning wood but decides he doesn't have a second to waste and instead concentrates all his willpower into making it go away. Back in the kitchen he pours himself a glass of milk and a bowl of cereal and has a hurried breakfast, downing his caffeine fix in between.

He has butterflies - a whole army of them - in his stomach as he tries to make up his mind on what to wear. He reminds himself that he isn't going on a fashion parade and that even with his best efforts he could hardly ever make a fashion statement anyway, and subsequently throws on all his favourites. Which would comprise of his long loyal light brown pants, a thin white V-neck T-shirt, his indispensable grey jacket, and an old pair of nondescript Converse shoes. Doing a quick mental run over all the stuff he would need for the day, he rushes out the door and takes the elevator down. He wishes he could have dismantled his jeep, packed it in a suitcase, and brought it here to New York where he could have _lego_-ed it back together. He misses his baby already. He hates trying to grab a taxi early morning.

Of course it's raining when he steps out. And the universe isn't even trying to be discreet about the fact that it's trying to seriously fuck up his life. It's a frickin' downpour out there. He runs out in the rain, madly waving and literally screaming like a banshee for a cab. One pulls up after several minutes but there's a frail old lady standing beside him, trembling under a tiny umbrella, and how could he...

"Thank you, son," she says with a kind smile as he helps her into the taxi. He smiles back with a nod and that would have been the highlight of his day had it not been for the fact that he's getting thoroughly soaked through and he has his first class to _not_ be late for.

He stands out in the rain for several long minutes making quite the spectacle out of himself, but he doesn't really care. When a lone cab pulls over at last he makes a mad dash for it, but a man beats him to it first.

"That's mine!" he literally shrieks, feeling like the metaphorical _kid-whose-candy-was-snatched_. He is fuming.

The man is wearing a sky-blue button-down shirt tucked in over close-fitting black pants; he has a couple of books clutched in one hand and a black jacket in the other. He is soaked through as well and Stiles tries not to stare too much at how his shirt is clinging to his skin. He is obviously _very_ well-built and frankly, if he isn't sex on legs Stiles doesn't know what is. Stiles is gaping, he realises belatedly, and when he slowly raises his eyes up to his face, the man is looking at him with a cocky grin. And did he mention he is also extremely good-looking? They are about the same height. His eyes are lucid blue, and-

"So?" the man suddenly speaks, startling him.

"What?" he asks timidly, obviously having _not_ heard whatever had been asked of him earlier.

"Get in the cab, we're sharing," the man replies, looking amused- and what's that look he's giving Stiles?

Stiles swallows nervously and wordlessly steps into the cab as the man holds the door open for him. He gets in after Stiles and smiles at him. He then places his stack of books beside him on the seat on the other side from Stiles and scoots over closer to him to make space for his jacket as well. Their thighs touch and Stiles feels a jolt of electricity travel all the way down his spine. He is suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm.

"Where are you headed?" the man asks him, still smiling at him. Stiles thinks he has never seen a sexier smile in his entire life and panics when he struggles to form words into a reply.

"I have a 9:30 class to catch," he says after a tumultous battle with himself, trying desperately to present a calm front despite all the internal flailing taking place.

"Me too," the man replies and there's that look in his eyes again that Stiles can't quite place yet, but it sets his heart racing nevertheless. "Columbia?"

"Yes," Stiles attempts at his calm pretence again but his voice terribly betrays him when it comes out as a small whimper. The man only looks amused.

"Derek," he says and extends a hand.

Stiles slowly shakes the hand and as he touches skin for the first time he feels something stir somewhere on his body. _For fuck's sake_, he's only just met the guy and he's already having all sorts of stuff going all hooyay inside him.

"Stiles," he all but gasps breathlessly. Because- _merciful lord_, not only is _Derek_ giving him that look again, but now he is rubbing his thumb against the back of Stiles' hand.

Stiles is most definitely having a major crisis in his pants right now and all the willpower in the world is doing nothing to stop its relentless progress. He then makes the unforgivable mistake of glancing down at his very visible bulge. Derek follows his gaze and Stiles has never felt more embarrassed in his life. He knows that his ears are already bright red and the heat coming off his face could have put a small radiator out of work. He is surprised, however, when Derek's grip on his hand tightens just a little and he looks up to see his adam's apple bob as he swallows, his lips slightly parted and eyes gleaming with what Stiles could only describe as..._desire. Lust._

_Oh god._ Stiles immediately jerks his hand back and clears his throat as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Derek's face is inches away from his and Stiles can feel his breath hot on his neck. His pants are too tight now and he can hardly move without making himself any more obvious. Derek makes a sound like he's supposed to say something but suddenly at a loss for words, and then leans back against his seat. Stiles feels a shocking pang of disappointment and has to scold himself for being so desperately horny. He should have jerked himself off in the shower after all. Well, it's much too fucking late now.

Derek starts unbuttoning his shirt and Stiles can only look on and feel panic rising inside him. But then Derek stops after only the top three buttons and pulls a white handkerchief out of his pocket, proceeding to wipe himself dry. Stiles swallows and tries to look away but cannot. He can see Derek looking at him out of the corner of his eye with a smirk. He barely catches a glimpse of a muscular, precision-chiselled chest straight from the statue of some Greek god before Derek begins buttoning up again.

"You should dry yourself too," Derek says, turning to face him with a grin that should literally be outlawed in atleast a few dozen states with immediate effect.

Stiles only nods dumbly and begins to remove his jacket.

"Here, let me," says Derek, reaching out and helping Stiles, who hardly gets an opportunity to protest as Derek's hand brushes against the back of his neck and he swears he didn't actually let out a small moan.

Once Derek has helped him out of his jacket he suddenly feels naked and exposed. It's not like his super-thin T-shirt literally plastered to his skin is making him feel any more clothed than a frickin' newborn baby. He pulls out his own handkerchief and starts wiping down his neck. He can feel Derek's gaze burning into his skin as he dries himself. Carefully he glances sideways and sees Derek's eyes roaming all over his body. He feels heat rise to his face again. He knows that Derek can see it all on his face, in his eyes, in the way his whole body is trembling with anticipation.

"See? Much better," Derek says in a cheerful, husky voice and smacks his thigh.

Stiles smiles back laboriously but immediately gives up all pretence because Derek's hand does not leave his thigh. Instead he's gently rubbing it and Stiles has to bite his lower lip to prevent an obnoxious, needy sound from escaping his throat. His throbbing cock is pressed up against his skin - hot and in need of immediate release. Derek glances down at the huge bulge in his pants and licks his lips. Stiles fails to stop a small whimper from escaping his lips. This is fucking torture. His left hand is grasping his jacket for all he's worth and his right hand is somewhere- he has no idea if it's even attached to him anymore.

There's no use pretending now. His breath comes out in thick, needy pants. He thinks he sees the cab-driver glance at them through the rear-view mirror but when he actually looks at him in panic, his eyes are on the road. Derek's breath is uneven and his face is too fucking close to his again. When did he-

Stiles can't stop the loud moan when in one swift movement, Derek's hand climbs all the way up and settles on his hard cock. However, the sound is muffled by Derek's mouth as he swoops in and captures his lips, trapping the sound. Stiles' brain has exploded into tiny, microscopic bits. There's just white noise now. Absently he feels Derek remove his jacket from his grasp and drape it over his legs. But he can't even fight it because Derek is furiously rubbing his achingly stiff dick and kisssing him with a passion he could only describe as _savage_. Beastly. Hungry. Derek takes his bottom lip between his teeth and gives it a small nip before sucking on it.

Stiles doesn't even know what's happening anymore. Derek continues to stroke his cock through his pants relentlessly. Several moans rumble up his throat but die away at his lips as Derek's mouth muffles them. His right hand, he discovers, is snaking up Derek's thigh all on its own. He barely manages to brush Derek's hard erection before his hand is slapped away. Derek, however, breathes a soft moan into his mouth. After that he abandons all rationality. Or rather, all rationality abandons him. He begins to thrust against Derek's hand. He closes his eyes and actually kisses Derek back for the first time. They breathe in through their noses noisily. He wonders how on earth the driver could not know what the hell is going on in the back. He couldn't care less however.

Derek pushes his tongue into his mouth and he accepts it hungrily as he continues to thrust violently against Derek's hand which is rubbing his needy cock hotly through the fabric. He whimpers and moans his pleasure into Derek's mouth where they drown out. He feels the pressure building up at the base of his cock as his balls tighten. Derek senses it and increases the tempo of his stroke till all coherency is effectively massacred inside Stiles' head. He can only dig his fingers into the seat and keep thrusting forcefully into Derek's hand. Again and again and again. Until he finally explodes inside his pants. His legs kick out under the force of his release and his whole body arches up, a violent tremble passing throughout. Derek's mouth ravishes his with a hunger he himself reciprocates.

Then he comes crashing back down to planet earth. And opens his eyes. And dares not move. Derek pulls away from him with a satisfied smirk. Stiles is flushed outside and sticky inside. He blinks rapidly several times but cannot seem to get his brain to start functioning again. The taxi pulls to a stop. Derek pulls out a bill and hands it to the driver.

"Keep the change," he says, eyes still on Stiles.

Stiles only stares dumbfounded as Derek gathers his things and exits the taxi.

"Nice to meet you, Stiles," he says, ducking his head below the door to give him a grin and a wink.

Then he's gone. Stiles still doesn't move and is only startled into a scramble for his own stuff when the driver turns around to face him. He is a little, chubby man, and presently with a sly grin.

"You are getting out here, right, sir?" he asks.

Stiles nods and proceeds to leave, but stops.

"How'd you know this was our stop?" he asks incredulously.

"I picked it up from your conversation," the driver replies sheepishly and promptly whips back around to stare straight ahead.

Stiles can only give the back of his head a disbelieving gape before he stumbles out and rushes for his first lecture, feeling very uncomfortable in his pants. He is already running late though. He rechecks his schedule for the hundredth time and makes absolutely sure it's a _Twentieth Century Fiction_ lecture he's supposed to be attending now. As he approaches the class, he makes a sudden frantic grab for his schedule and stares at it in disbelief. Surely _Prof. Derek Hale_ couldn't possibly be... He shakes his head, letting out a small laugh at the absurdity of the thought.

His laugh is only fading away in the shape of a faint smile when he enters the room. He knows he's about ten minutes late. But then he promptly discovers that that could very well be the least of his worries right now. Because straight up ahead on the podium is the one face he could never forget. And they just stare at each other, mirroring each other's expressions. Mostly shock. _Utter mortification_ on Stiles' part. Until Derek's face slowly breaks into a smile.

"Have a seat, Stiles."

As Stiles mutely and obediently walks up to an empty seat, he can't help but feel like he's being sent away to the metaphorical wall of shame. He can feel Derek's eyes drilling into the back of his head. When he had applied to Columbia, he most definitely had not signed up for this.

Stiles wants the world to know that once again, the universe has managed to royally screw his virgin ass, thank you very much.


	2. Chapter 2

** _Columbia University, Morningside Heights  
12:43 PM_ **

Stiles has secluded himself away from all possible human interaction, surrounded on all sides by an infinite catacomb of knowledge and the wisdom of ages reverently inscribed onto sacred rolls of parchment delicately bound into volumes - also commonly known as _books_. He is in the renowned Butler Library of Columbia University. If it had been any other time he would have first worshipped at the feet of the ancients and at the very least burnt a few incense sticks before even contemplating setting foot inside this sacred sanctuary. Right now, however, he couldn't care less if he is here or in his dingy little room back home in Beacon Hills secretly watching reruns of Desperate Housewives.

_Embarrassment_, _humiliation_ or even _mortification_ do not adequately describe what he's feeling right now. That's it, he'll have to come up with an entirely new word. Funny way of _enriching_ the English language actually. Perhaps a highly concentrated extract of the three raised to the zillionth degree.

He doesn't even remember a word from that first lecture. He _figures_ it's due to the fact that the entire capacity of his brain throughout that class had been reduced to a single string of _Oh my god_ running in an endless loop. Midway he had even started a mild hyperventilation episode and had had to slap himself out of his condition. The guy sitting next to him had only spared him a half-mortified look like Stiles had just told him he was adopted and that he was actually his biological father. Which in retrospect would have been extremely weird, even by Stiles' questionable defination of _weird_.

And while he had been sitting there, desperately praying that a hole would open up beneath him and swallow him along with all evidence of him ever having existed on the planet, Derek had not even looked in the least shaken - except for that brief moment when he had first entered the class. Which perhaps might even have been more surprise than anything else, unlike Stiles' unspeakable mortification.

In fact, Derek had been all confident and sexy and charming up there and the entire class had remained enthralled till the end of the lecture, many remarking after that that had been the most amazing class they had ever attended and that _Professor_ Derek Hale could easily be their favourite teacher. Stiles might in all probability have left the room in strong agreement with the trending sentiment had it not been for the fact that the _professor_ in question had barely an hour ago literally been _performing_ unnameable things on him.

Not that he had even in the least resisted his advances, but still, doesn't the guy even have the slightest semblance of dignity or a moral filter? Because if Stiles had even had an inkling that he had basically been whoring himself to a teacher, he would have literally jumped out the window of that wretched cab and walked straight into a bus or something. And of course Derek had _obviously_ known that he is a student at Columbia, probably even one of his students - which in a cruel twist of fate, it turned out, Stiles actually is. Oh god, this is so messed up - beyond twisted - like the gnarled roots of some ancient mangrove that has become so entangled over thousands of years that there is literally no beginning or end anymore.

It is a scandal - a horribly frightening and real one - or would be one soon - and Stiles is its subject. It is one of those stories that borderline, wannabe journalists would seize with the passion of a thousand burning suns for their _big break_. He is gonna be asked to leave Columbia and he has barely even made it through his first day. Oh god, the disappointed look on his father's face when he returns home. No other college of any reputation would accept him then.

The very distinct possibility that he might be undergoing a very real sexual identity crisis right now isn't even on his panic radar, because being gay or atleast bisexual is actually a possibility he has been considering for sometime now, however fleetingly. What he hasn't considered _at all_ is the probability of his very existence coming into jeopardy before he even turns twenty. Because if this whole _story_ were to ever see the light of day, he would literally implode into himself and fizzle out without so much as a twitch due to the sheer magnitude of wave upon wave of cold, humourless humiliation.

Stiles isn't even going to pretend that he hadn't enjoyed it, because oh how he had. Also, he isn't going to pretend that _that_ hadn't been the most action he has had in like ever - well, barring the very tumultous and explicitly scandalous relationship he enjoys with his right hand. He is also not gonna pretend like he has any hope at all of ever _getting_ anymore than what the spiteful universe had decided to surprise him with only this morning.

Speaking of which, did he mention he practically stormed out of _Professor_ Derek Hale's class this morning? Yes, sir, he sure did, like the total badass that he is. Derek had called out to him but he had kept walking on and out the door. His heart had been doing all kinds of physics-defying flips inside his chest but he had not looked back. _Could not_. Twice Derek had called him and the second time he had actually sounded disappointed. Stiles would be lying if he says it had not exactly pained him - a little. But he could not do this. He has heard enough tantalisingly scandalous stories of professor-student relationships to know that none of them end well. The _no good endings, not ever_ is the underlying principle in these sort of relationships and Stiles isn't going to risk his entire life for one. Not even if it involves a ridiculously good-looking, hot, sexy, charming- did he mention good-looking?- professor. Nope, non, niat.

He lets out a loud sigh and is honestly startled out of his skin when a woman's voice _shhh..._'s him from somewhere among the labyrinth of bookshelves all around. God, is she the _Moaning Myrtle_ of the Nicholas Murray Butler Library? Because when he had concealed himself in this far corner of the library, he had made absolutely sure there hadn't been a single human soul in sight. Obviously he couldn't have vouched for supernatural entities.

He lets out a quieter sigh - because his life is so fucking fucked up and if he can't have his sighs, what else has he got left? - and drops his head onto the table, hitting the wood with his forehead with a soft _thud_.

There's a chuckle close behind him and he immediately twists around in his chair to see who it is - because if Derek Fucking Hale has followed him all the way out here... It's not Derek, which is definitely a huge relief but also somewhat disappointing - disappointing because (he has to grudgingly concede) there had indeed been a tiny part of him that had actually hoped it was Derek. Which, by the way, isn't helping his cause at all. It's one thing to battle the mighty forces of the universe; now he has to play tug-of-war with himself? Sometimes he wonders if he's even in charge of himself. Like, has his brain assumed a life of its own? If it has, Stiles can only wonder if it has something to do with that volatile concoction his devious little genius brain (obviously when he still had control over it) had devised in Chemistry Lab back at Beacon Hills High School. At the time the only visible side-effects of the miniature explosion had been terribly sensitive skin for a few weeks. Apparently the effects had been more consequential and long-term than had originally surmised to have been.

The guy is still chuckling when Stiles returns to the scene from his brief detour down memory-lane. Seriously, he has had a pretty traumatising day and he isn't going to hesitate from inflicting a little trauma himself on some chuckling bastard - especially if all the chuckling is being done at his expense. A scathing remark is almost at his lips when the boy suddenly stops chuckling. No, no, strike that - the cocky laugh-at-other-people's-misery bastard does not actually stop; he only slows down. Slow enough to chuckle and speak at the same time. The sadistic multitasking bastard.

"Dude, don't take it out on the table," he chuckle-speaks, which immediately reminds Stiles of Jackson back at Beacon Hills. That version of Jackson he had always wanted to punch senseless. Except even that Jackson had had more redeeming qualities than this chuckling clown. "College is a bitch anyway."

Wow, wasn't that the statement of the century?

The boy (thankfully run out of his chuckling steam now) walks around to the other side of the table - Stiles' eyes following him and consequently the rest of his body too - and seats himself on the vacant chair, look irritatingly smug. He is wearing black close-fitting jeans and a red, open-zipped hoodie which he promptly removes the moment he sits and places on one corner of the table, revealing a black T-shirt underneath with some seriously disturbing graffiti printed on the front. He isn't as muscled as Derek, nor as good-looking. Between the hot and cute categories, probably the latter being more applicable.

And wow, just wow - Stiles, you my boy have already jumped so effortlessly into all the gay shenanigans. To think here he had actually been giving serious consideration to an alleged sexual identity crisis. Because life does not get any more gay than this. He should have known he would be a natural. Or perhaps Derek had unwittingly opened up a hidden floodgate of _teh gay_ locked away inside Stiles while he had been instructing him on the ways of the world this morning.

"Oh- oh!" the boy suddenly speaks, looking dramatically disappointed with himself. "Damn, where have my manners gone? I'm Eric."

He instantly reaches out a hand over the table, obviously expecting a good shake from the way he is suddenly beaming. Like full-on Chesire Cat smile, which for Stiles unfortunately is only associated with hidden sinister agenda. Stiles only eyes the hand suspiciously - like if he reaches out, the guy would quickly pull it back with a satisfied 'Gotcha!'. Which, for that matter, he actually might. God only knows.

When Stiles does not take up the _bait_, the boy gives his extended hand a small hopeful encouraging movement. His smile, however, comes down from its sickening high to just a regular one. When Stiles still does not take up the offer, he retracts the hand and frickin' pouts. Which actually makes Stiles feel just the tiniest bit guilty. _What the hell?_

"Not van der Woodsen, are you?" Stiles says drily.

"What?" _Eric_ says, his sullen expression dramatically morphing into a confused one.

"Forget it," Stiles says, brushing away his small attempt at humour. "I'm Stiles."

Stiles extends a hand this time and for a fleeting second fears he is about to be subjected to a scathingly humiliating dose of his own medicine. Eric actually looks uncertain for a moment but quickly breaks into a smile and reaches out his own hand, giving Stiles' hand a warm shake. There is none of the _internal hooyay_ from this morning and Stiles, surprisingly, is actually relieved. Eric, however, holds on to his hand a little longer than necessary and Stiles actually has to wiggle his fingers a little before the other boy flashes him an embarrassed smile and lets him go.

And oh god- he's seen that look before, the one presently dancing all over Eric's face. It's not the one Derek had been giving him this morning. It actually is the one he's seen a sickening number of times on Scott's face when he'd first started dating Allison.

Stiles realises he needs to get out of here right now because he's simply not ready to deal with this kind of shit at the moment. He therefore promptly begins to gather his stuff when Eric gives him a panicked expression. And Eric most definitely has those irresistible puppy-dog eyes that Scott uses all the time with sweeping success to his oblivious advantage. Stiles immediately stops and stares at Eric undecidedly.

"I have to uh...go...because I just remembered I actually have a matter of great urgency to attend to...like right now...because it's uh...urgent," he says at last, slowly rising from his seat and putting on one of his winning smiles.

Apparently it's not as winning as he has been led to believe it is, or maybe it's just become a little rusty from all the frowning he's been doing lately. Either way, Eric seriously pouts again and then puts on his kicked-puppy show . Stiles may or may not have just heard a small whine too somewhere in there.

"Um...okay," says Eric, giving a small smile. "But we're friends now, right?"

Stiles seriously struggles to answer that without feeling like he has suddenly dropped all the way down to third grade. "Yes," he manages. "Yes, we are actually."

"Good," says Eric, reaching into his pocket. "Here."

Stiles stares blankly at the mobile phone pushed across the table toward him until he suddenly realises what Eric wants. _The scheming fucker!_ God, this guy is good. He should probably make him his Yoda or something.

Seeing as he has no way out of this and had literally sealed the deal himself by his own admission, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and wordlessly hands it to Eric. Eric flashes him a wide grin and he can't help smiling back. He quickly punches in his number and saves it before handing Eric's phone back. Eric does the same. They say their goodbyes and Stiles briskly marches off to see if the universe had - by a rather immediate administration of karma - actually sent a _matter of great urgency_ along his way.

Karma, however, apparently is a dish best served cold and the rest of the day breezes by without anymore untoward incidents, injuries, further humiliation, or run-ins into Derek.

**~ooo0ooo~**

When Stiles finally returns to their apartment feeling like the lifeforce has been totally sucked out of him by the monster that was apparently only the workload of Columbia's undergraduate English major course, he finds Jackson lounged in front of their larger-than-life flatscreen HDTV with a half-empty bucket of KFC beside him and halfway through a DVD of - _God forbid!_ - _The Notebook_.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" Stiles asks, half-laughing, wondering if some passing Trickster had decided to teach him some obscure lesson in life, because this whole day has frankly felt more surreal than real.

"I miss Lydia," Jackson says simply, turning his head briefly toward Stiles before facing the screen again. He is pouting, Stiles doesn't fail to notice at once.

And if that wasn't the whole frickin' punchline of the elaborate cosmic joke that had been the gradual unfolding of the events of this day! This unbelievably eventful day that could for many reasons go down in Stiles' tiny island nation as an island-wide holiday.

Stiles of course doesn't actually say any of the irresistibly scrumptious remarks that immediately bubble up inside his bottomless jar of _Sarcasm And Witty Remarks_. Because that would simply be counterproductive to all the bro-bonding Jackson and he has been doing ever since they moved in together.

So he dumps his stuff on the floor, shovels a mountain of empty beer cans off the couch, and then slumps down on it beside Jackson. Jackson places the KFC bucket between them and Stiles actually starts to feel bad for the countless chicken that have had to give up their little lives just so he could munch on their legs. But then he takes his first crunchy bite and quickly supposes that all their little chicken souls had most probably been sacrificed for the greater good anyway and only hopes they are in a better place now.

When they are through with their bucket Jackson mysteriously produces another one and then it's crunchy goodness all over again. They marathon through several mutual favourites before lastly returning to _The Notebook_ again. By then it's too late to cook anything and they're both tired anyway, so they wisely order Chinese instead. They don't talk much as they eat but the little they do isn't any of the awkward-pause filled ones they had had to endure in the beginning. Stiles would like to believe that they're now very nearly friends - if they're not already, that is.

After dinner they both retire to their rooms. Stiles strips, showers and wiggles under the covers before finally picking up his phone and calling the one person he's been dying to talk to all day - Lydia. If someone had told him when he had been at Beacon Hills that he'd be one day best friends with Lydia Martin, he would have laughed in their faces and then done some weird African tribal dance just to prove the total absurdity of the very suggestion. But now he actually frickin' is.

It had been shortly after she had rejected his date proposal. Their mutual isolation and loss of long-standing relationships had actually been what had brought them together. It had been then when the old gang had totally fallen apart and no one talked to anyone. Even now it is just him and Lydia, and him and Jackson. Their friendship has only grown stronger since then and Stiles has somehow managed to shed any lingering feelings he had for her.

Lydia answers after a few rings, sounding just a wee bit grumpy and he figures he has probably interrupted something.

"I can call later," he offers promptly.

"It's alright," says Lydia with a sigh. She sounds tired. "I was probably in dire need of a break anyway. This one problem has lived up to the hype I fear."

"Ha!" says Stiles and laughs. "Wow, must be a really tough one to have stumped the great Lydia Martin. Should I prepare for the end of days yet?"

Lydia laughs with him. "Not yet, dear. I'll have it cracked wide open before the night is over. Anyway, tell me about you. How's it been, your first day?"

Stiles only hesitates for a moment before he remembers their full-disclosure policy and tells her everything - well, atleast a censored version of the taxi episode and then practically everything else as explicitly possible. Lydia gasps, snorts, giggles and laughs throughout his narration and it actually makes him feel so much better to finally talk to someone about all these after having held it in for so long. He then debates whether he should tell her about Jackson's little drama earlier and decides it's best he doesn't - for now atleast. It probably was nothing to pound the alarm over.

"Hm...what'd you say his name was again?" Lydia asks.

"Derek Hale," Stiles replies and somehow he can't shake the feeling that Lydia knows something she's not telling him.

"Oh, you know what, I really need to get back to work now so I'll talk to you soon again, 'right?" Lydia suddenly says.

"Oh- okay, sure. Buh-bye," Stiles says, feeling something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach.

They exchange several fake goodbyes before finally giving up their childish game and actually hanging up.

Stiles settles into his bed with an exhausted sigh and discovers after several minutes of tossing and turning that he cannot fall asleep. That pair of blue eyes just won't stop haunting him. His mind keeps travelling back to the taxi ride and how Derek's mouth had felt on his and how his body had responded to his touch. That damn confident smirk, those smoldering eyes that seemed to look deep into his soul, those sexy lips that he couldn't help wondering how they would feel on his cock, sliding up and down his length in slick motion. Oh god, and that frickin' hot body that he cannot help imagining pressed up tight against his own bare skin, rubbing and creating friction that could spark up his very soul and consume him.

He opens his eyes, breath shallow and cock hard. Derek just wouldn't leave his damn mind alone. He realises he isn't going to get any sleep tonight if he doesn't do something. He mutters a quiet curse and reaches for his bedside drawer, pulling out a box of tissues. He rids himself of his boxer shorts and flings them into the semi-darkness of the room, kicking off the covers next and lying there completely naked. He is only fueling the flames, he knows, but Derek's voice is calling him and his body is already responding in ways that surprise and astonish him. He almost wonders what he ever saw in Lydia back in high school.

He closes his eyes and slowly takes his already rock hard cock in his right hand, giving it a few strokes. He bites his bottom lip and gently sucks on it, imagining it is Derek's mouth on his. His left hand drifts further down to massage his balls, juggling them in his hand as he squeezes them gently. He rubs his right thumb over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the precum and creating a feverish friction. He continues to pump his straining cock as he imagines those deliciously sexy lips enclosing around his shaft, wrapping perfectly around it like the whole frickin' purpose of their very existence was to do just that.

Derek's mouth expertly travels up and down the length of his cock, which has now swelled to a size he hasn't even known it could. He has never got this huge in his entire frickin' life. Derek's tongue teases that sensitive tip as he takes in Stiles' length again and again and again.

"Derek!" he gasps as he imagines his cock disappearing into and re-emerging from Derek's mouth.

His breath comes out ragged, needy and raw. His left hand travels up, caressing his body, before finally settling on his nipples, rubbing them hard. He takes his index finger into his mouth and sucks on it, imagining it's Derek's.

"Derek, you like it when I fuck that slutty little mouth of yours, dontcha?" he growls, shocking even himself, but that's an embarrassment he'll just have to deal with later.

He begins stroking himself faster as he feels the sensation building inside him, lips parted and panting. In his mind Derek keeps relentlessly sucking his cock, eliciting a loud moan from his lips.

"Derek...f-fuck...so good..." he pants, voice hoarse. "Don't stop...fuck...yes...oh god..."

Without his knowledge his left hand travels down again and teases the sensitive puckered area of his warm entrance. He had never explored there before but the pleasure it shoots through his body is unimaginable. His grip tightens around his cock and he begins to furiously stroke himself closer and closer towards that all-consuming release. He moans Derek's name over and over again.

"Stiles, my ears are bleeding!" Jackson's horrified voice suddenly comes through the door.

And that's it. The rush of actually getting caught is too much. All the pleasure that has been building suddenly channels itself up his cock and spurts out, shooting high up into the air and splattering down on his chest as he moans Derek's name again. Very loudly this time.

There's a strangled sound on the other side of the door followed immediately by that of something heavy slumping to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

As far as _awkward_ _morning-after_'s are concerned, Stiles has _very _little experience. Which, by the way, is an overstatement in itself. Because, unlike most other _normal _people's _awkward morning-after_'s_, _the version Stiles is most familiar with involves a squinty-eyed, asthmatic bff by the name of Scott McCall, a very blurry recollection of the previous night's (mis)adventures which he is somehow vaguely sure involved a crime-scene, fireworks and a very loud explosion, and finally a very harried-looking Sheriff looking down at his unceremoniously sprawled, not-yet-fully-awake form with the highest degree of concern and suspicion.

Not really knowing, therefore, what exactly to expect, Stiles trudges barefoot into the kitchen the following morning, only to find Jackson already sitting there with a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. There's an undecipherable look on his face as he sits staring vacantly into his coffee, which - the moment he sees Stiles' apprehensive entrance - is replaced by one of some kind of knowing mischievious amusement. This is right about the time when Stiles realises that shit is about to hit the fan. Belatedly he also realises that his desperate prayers for Jackson's memories of the previous night to have been somehow swallowed whole - drowned out, preferably - by an unhealthy amount of post-breakup Lydia-pining, have, not surprisingly, gone unanswered.

"_Good _morning..." Stiles tries at first, flashing a brief hopeful grin, but when Jackson only gives him a pointed _Bitch, please! _look in return, he lets out a long, drawn-out sigh and slumps down into the chair facing Jackson. _Might as well get this shit over with asap._

"I presume you had a _very _good night?" Jackson prods nonchalantly as Stiles pours himself a cup from the very generous pot Jackson appears to have brewed.

Stiles rolls his eyes and resolving to simply wait for the storm to pass over in silence, raises his cup to his lips and pulls in a large swig of the black liquid loudly. He blinks rapidly several times as his brain registers and then makes several attempts to verify and then re-verify the seemingly false information his taste buds send upstairs. The truth is,_ Jackson makes unbelievable coffee!_

Jackson, in the meantime, appears to have read through every expression that passed across Stiles' unprepared face, because immediately he looks quite smug in his chair. "Never mind the superlatives," he declares with a wave of his hand, as though he were some pompous ancient Epyptian pharaoh waiving the death-penalty off some condemned criminal. "The identity of this mysterious _Derek_, however, I'm quite eager to learn."

As Jackson settles into his chair once again, looking more self-satisfied with every passing second, Stiles' heart hammers away to kingdom come. He can feel his ears burning red hot as he stares down helplessly into his mug of the swirling black as though some form of help could spring out to his defence from there. Though, as things presently stand, that appears to be about his only hope.

"Dude," Jackson suddenly says, his voice devoid of any of his usual sneering tone and presently marked by what Stiles can hardly bring himself to believe is actually concern. "Stiles! Hey...I was just joking."

"Huh?" Stiles manages to sputter out (and not at all in a graceful manner either), as he loses his bearings momentarily at this totally unprecedented version of Jackson.

"Look," says Jackson, leaning forward, and there's something in the way he says it that Stiles simply has to oblige him, "I'm totally cool with it."

"Huh?" says Stiles again, intelligently enough. Because- _did Stiles actually just hear Jackson say what he thinks he said? _What the hell could Jackson possibly mean by that anyway? Was he like _cool _with Stiles jacking off in the middle of the night whilst simultaneously screaming out Derek's name with the passion of a bitch in heat? Or is there something else he's totally missing here?

It turns out there is. But of course Stiles doesn't quite realise it until Jackson finally lets out an impatient _and _frustrated grunt and decides to enlighten the still hopelessly clueless Stiles.

"_Oh. My. God!_" Jackson says with painstaking emphasis, as he rolls his eyes and gestures erratically around him at the same time. Stiles quirks his eyebrows in encouragement. Jackson appears to struggle with words for a while as his mouth twists and contorts wordlessly. "You know..." he says at last, looking like he's under a tremendous amount of pain. "I mean I'm cool with the fact that you- you- youreintoguys- totally not a big deal...though it'd have been so much easier if you had just told me, you know, instead of..."

Stiles blinks dumbstruck as a strange emotion crawls into Jackson's face and settles there. "Hold on..." Jackson deadpans before his eyes. "Derek _is _a dude, _right?!_"

"_What?!_" Stiles can't help himself from blurting out. A very awkward staring-contest then ensues across the kitchen island, at the end of which both boys burst out laughing. Stiles hasn't laughed this hard in ages: his eyes water and his sides hurt. Jackson, across from him, is in no better condition.

"So is he like your...um...boyfriend?" Jackson asks timidly after they've both regained their senses.

"Definitely not!" Stiles answers instantly with absolute certainty, hoping it squashes any other inquisitive thoughts that might take root inside Jackson's head. Because apart from the fact that it's the truth anyway, he needs to tell himself so too. Atleast that part of himself that traitorously wishes it was otherwise.

"Fine," Jackson says coolly, totally back with his whole _Bitches be like that... _attitude.

"What's this for?" Stiles asks incredulously as he notices the ice pack lying near Jackson only now.

Jackson's hand instinctively goes up to nurse a bruise on the right side of his head. Stiles only looks from the ice pack now clutched in his hand to the small gash on Jackson's head, puzzled.

"Are you okay?" he asks, concerned for the other's welfare.

"I slipped," Jackson mutters quietly and snatches the ice pack from Stiles before briskly marching out of the kitchen.

If Stiles thinks he finds that sudden exit suspicious, he doesn't have time to dwell any longer on it. He suddenly remembers that he has absolutely no time to be standing around in kitchens, lost in thought at that. Everything else flies out of his immediate concern as he dashes for the shower. In less than fifteen minutes he's showered, dressed, and ready to go. Jackson is nowhere to be seen as he exits the apartment. Stiles hopes he's finally decided to attend classes after all, like the rest of civilisation.

It's not raining today and Stiles manages to get hold of a taxi fairly easily. There are no frail, old ladies in need of assistance nearby, and most definitely not any hot men in dress pants. Well, maybe there are a few, but not the one in particular he's half-hoping shows up right now, slightly out of breath and asking about a shared ride.

He rolls his eyes at himself and steps into the taxi. As the car pulls out into the street, Stiles smiles quietly. Today is just the second day of classes after all; Derek Hale, hot professor or not, is most definitely _not _going to ruin his whole college experience. In fact, Stiles knows exactly what he's going to do. He's gonna pretend like yesterday never happened at all. Today is the first day of college. It's a fresh start.

**~ooo0ooo~**

The day marches on swimmingly. All his morning classes, in fact, are more enjoyable today than Stiles remembers them having been yesterday - for obvious reasons of course, but that's totally not the point. The real test, however, comes right at the end - his last class for the day. Stiles contemplates skipping it altogether, and almost does it too. Somehow he finds himself sitting there in a packed room, sweating like he's sitting in a pit of fire, when Derek walks into the room with a grace Stiles could never master in ten thousand years, all smiles and looking just as ravaciously good-looking as Stiles last remembers him.

In this very moment, Stiles realises, hardly regretfully, that all his self-prepping and resolutions from earlier have come undone. Stiles can't tear his eyes away from that face, from that body - _from Derek._ That grin still sets his heart racing, and he fears a mob of blood-thirsty butterflies has swarmed into his stomach.

Their eyes meet briefly. Derek's are unreadable. Stiles tries desperately to see something - _anything_ - that'll convince him that Derek is even in the slightest glad to see him. Or that he even recognises him, for that matter.

There's nothing - or atleast nothing that Stiles can see. Derek looks away. Stiles swallows a bitter lump in his throat. _What the hell had he been expecting anyway? _There was nothing between them to start with. Derek probably shared a ride with someone else today. He can't believe his resolve has been this weak all along. One look, one glance at Derek and he's abandoned every last shred of sanity. Serves him right.

It takes half the class to calm himself and the other half is spent trying not to stare at Derek too much. Completely lacking in the self-restraint department after all.

"He's totally hot," he hears the girl sitting behind him whisper to her friend midway through class.

"The guy in front of us?" comes the sceptical reply.

"Geez, not that whacko!" a horrified voice answers her; then sultrily: "I meant _Professor _Derek Hale..."

"Totally!" the other one instantly concurs enthusiastically. "I wonder if he's single..."

"Who cares!" her friend declares and the duo breaks out into a fit of hushed giggles.

Stiles only rolls his eyes, half-amused, wondering what their reactions would be if he told them about what the good professor liked to do to young boys such as himself, in his spare time. This train of thought soon sparks an avalanche and Stiles happily allows himself to be swept away in its trail for the rest of the class.

When the lecture finally wraps up Stiles is ready to bolt out the door. Only he can't because not only is it obviously impossible with the number of people between him and the door, there's something holding him back, grabbing him by the shoulders. In an unholy fit of irritation he whirls around and comes face to face with a very familiar face.

"Stiles!"

"Eric..._you_ were in this class?" Stiles asks, half-smiling, because seriously, that grin is frickin' infectious.

"Yep, I was three rows behind you," chirps Eric brightly. It's amazing how a person can be this cheerful _all the time_. "Hey...Stiles...so I was kinda wondering if- if you'd...um...wanna- "

All of a sudden Eric seems to lose whatever he'd been going on about as he looks past Stiles to the front of the class. "Stiles," he says very slowly, "I think Professor Hale is calling you..."

"I know," Stiles says through gritted teeth. "Ignore him. Go on. You were saying?"

"But- "

"Eric, it's okay. He'll give up soon enough. Just- "

"You should go see what he wants to talk to you about. Forget about what I was saying. It's nothing important anyway. Some other day. Maybe."

And that's it. Eric simply walks away with a strange smile. Left with no other option now, Stiles turns around very slowly and starts making his way to the front of the class. The room is now almost empty, and the few people still lingering around are all slowly making their way to the exit.

It's only when he's standing right in front of Derek that Stiles turns his eyes to look at him. Today Derek is wearing a maroon shirt tucked in over grey pants. Stiles manages to restrain his eyes from wantonly roaming over that scrumptious body.

"What do you want?" he says pointedly, and as emotionlessly as he can manage. Which isn't much since his voice cracks a little.

Derek looks around uncomfortably and then settles on Stiles, who is surprised to see some kind of emotion flicker behind those bright, blue eyes.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," says Derek, looking straight into his eyes, almost pleading. "What I did was unacceptable and I'm truly ashamed of my actions. I know you must find it very difficult - even impossible - to forgive me, and I'd completely understand it even if you never do. I just wanted you to know that I truly regret it."

"Is that all?" Stiles says bitterly. "Aren't you gonna beg me not to breathe a word of what you did to anybody? Aren't you gonna try to save your sorry little butt?"

Derek looks slightly taken aback at that, but what surprises Stiles the most is when a look passes through Derek's face. He looks hurt, and Stiles now wonders if he'd probably said too much. _As always_.

"I'm not going to do any of that," Derek says simply and sadly. "You can file a complaint against me. You have every right to."

There's no trace of insincerity either in Derek's voice or on his face. Stiles can only look on in astonishment, wondering if Derek could really have meant what he said. As Derek's hopeful eyes await an answer, Stiles makes his decision there. He has to say it now.

"As long as everything is forgotten and never spoken of again," he finally says, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. "We do not know each other. We maintain a proper teacher-student relationship."

Derek looks like he's about to say something; a troubled look crosses his face. But then a smile quickly takes its place and he nods in agreement. "Reasonable terms," he says.

Stiles feels a heavy feeling settle in his gut. His heart is beating thunderously. Frantically he searches Derek's face. If this really is the end, he must know the truth. Panic suddenly envelops him. Derek must have noticed it too because his face all of a sudden grows alarmed.

"Stiles..." Derek then speaks, half-smiling, looking slightly nervous too, weirdly enough. "How about...to show you how sorry I really am, I take you out to dinner this Friday?"

"_What?!_" Stiles literally chokes out his words. "I thought we just agreed not to... Are you asking me out on a date?"

"No, of course not," Derek laughs, as though it's the most absurd idea in the whole wide world. "I just told you, I want to show you how sorry I really am. Just a normal dinner between a...teacher and his...student?"

"Don't you have other plans?" Stiles asks, reeking with intelligence. He could have smacked himself over the head right there, would it not have made an already bad situation even worse. Seriously though, this is as dumb as dumb gets. He fears he has finally reached an evolutionary roadblock as far as dumbness is concerned.

Derek seems to pretty much get a roughly similar idea because a weird expression temporarily lays seige to his face, leaving a crinkled nose in its wake. "Nothing of any importance," he informs at last.

"Excuse me, Professor Hale..." a vaguely familiar voice suddenly interrupts Stiles' interesting train of thoughts from somewhere right behind him. For a split-second he wonders if the voice had indeed originated from somewhere inside or atop his own head; but then considering the absolute ridiculousness of the idea, turns around and very nearly butts heads with a tall, provocatively-dressed, blonde girl, who literally snarls in his face and leaps back. Beside her is a slightly shorter but very similarly dressed brunette.

There's a stare-off then and there; and Stiles, in his defence, would like to point out that it is a very unfair game of two against one. The two girls brush past him (brushing him aside in the process) to walk up to Derek, who casts a light scowl at the sight suddenly thrust in front of him.

"My name is Erica Reyes," says the blonde girl in what Stiles is safely assuming is her best attempt at _sexy_, "and this is my friend Janice Rivers. We- "

"Well, Miss Reyes, Miss Rivers," Derek cuts her off curtly, and nodding at each of them in turn, "as you can clearly see but chose instead to ignore, I am busy right now. Unless you have a matter of greater urgency than that which I am currently engaged in - which, for that matter, I doubt even exists as of now - I suggest you keep walking in the general direction of the exit."

"Who's that twerp?" Erica asks angrily of her friend as the two briskly walk away red-faced.

"The guy who was sitting in front of us last class- "

"_What?!_"

Stiles lets out his long contained snort as soon as the two girls are out of earshot.

"What?" says Derek, looking amused.

"That wasn't very nice of you, _Professor _Hale," quips Stiles.

"Well, I certainly know what those two were after," says Derek, a serious expression on his face.

"Maybe they had something important to ask you after all," says Stiles. Because hey, he sure knows how to fill in those awkward pauses in conversations with completely irrelevant and sometimes inappropriate fodder.

"Nothing's more important than this right now."

"You don't actually mean that."

"I do actually."

And then suddenly Stiles is not grinning goofily anymore. Instead his heartrate has skyrocketted and he is approaching major hyperventilation episode right now.

"So Stiles, will you go out to dinner with me this Friday?"

"As teacher and student?"

"That's entirely up to you."

"Do I have to dress?"

"Preferably yes, but also up to you."

"Do I- "

"Will you just answer the question first? _Please?_"

"Wait- I haven't? Shit, I thought I answered it way up there before I asked about whether I had to dress for the night or not- no, hold on- yeah, right, it was right before that when I asked about- "

"_Stiles_, will you just please- "

"Fine, fine, sourwolf- "

"_What? _What did you call me just now?"

"Nothing, I didn't- "

"Alright, just _please _answer the question already!"

"Derek Hale, I would love to go out to dinner with you this Friday."

"Great!" - then in barely audible mutters - " ... hope ...doesn't ... date ... "

"Did you just say _date_? Wait- is this actually a _date_?"

It's only Wednesday today and as soon as Stiles gets back to the apartment, he puts a gianormous red circle around Friday and strikes out Wednesday. Jackson looks at him strangely during dinner but says nothing. He takes care of himself in the shower tonight. It's only later that he discovers, after hours of sleepless tossing and turning, that he's still too giddy with excitement to fall asleep and that the only workaround is to keep chanting the depressing mantra: "It's not a date."

Needless to say, it works.


	4. Chapter 4

When Stiles croakily opens his eyes the following morning, he's actually disappointed to discover that he has not _Rip Van Winkle_'d his way to Friday after all. Whoever said that the _wait_ is the best part of it all should have got his (_her?_) head examined. Because if it were upto Stiles, he most certainly would have skipped the _wait_ altogether and jumped straight to the _action_ instead. The thing is, it's still Thursday today and Stiles is grumpy about it. The world will just have to deal with it.

It's only a few seconds after he's woken up that Stiles realises what actually woke him up. It's his phone buzzing thunderously on the bedside table. Rubbing the sleep-induced blur out of his eyes, he grabs the buzzing menace off the table and squints into the painfully bright glare of the small LCD. It's his dad.

In an instant he's sitting bolt upright on his bed, heart pumping furiously. Something bad has happened, he just knows it. There would only ever be one reason for his dad to call so early in the morning. In fact, there have only ever been two other occasions so far that have merited such calls.

The first one was a really long time ago, when his dad had not yet become Sheriff and his mom was still alive - though he had begun to see so little of her by then because she spent so much time at the hospital and he had so much going on in his life including school and his adventures with Scott to be able to squeeze long hospital visits in the midst of it all. It had been about four-thirty that morning when his dad had called their home line - voice all shaky and choked up - telling him to _get dressed, quickly!_ because he was on his way to pick him up so they could _go pay mom a visit_. No one had told him then that it would be the last of any such visits, and he had grumbled the whole way.

The second one wasn't too long ago; hardly a year has passed since. He can still remember it all as vividly as if he were there right now, reliving it again. Scott's limp, lifeless body hardly recognisable with all the tubes and blood, being rolled away to the ER by his own mother. Allison's there too, with her dad, in whose arms she has crumbled into an inconsolable mess. Stiles can't seem to cry right then; his blood has frozen in his veins. It's only much later that the tears begin. He remembers glancing at the clock down the hall; it was 3:15 AM. An hour ago he had been home fast asleep when his dad had called.

It could never be a good thing to receive a call from his dad this early in the morning. Stiles gingerly slides the green button across the screen and very slowly puts the phone to his ear.

"Hey, dad."

"Hey, son." There's a short pause. "You up?"

"Am now." Stiles laughs nervously - more of a coping mechanism firing up than anything else, because contrary to what many people believe (including himself sometimes), experience really does nothing to soften the blow. It's deep, raw and painful every single time. This much he has come to learn, accept and fear.

"Is it Scott?" he asks quickly, before this conversation can take any sudden, sharp nosedive into uncomfortable _beating around the bush_ banter - the sort that always precedes the breaking of bad news. It's too early in the day to indulge in needless trivialities anyway. "It's him, isn't it? I _knew it!_ That idiot- "

"Wha- "

"What did he do this time? Is he dead? Is that it?"

"_Stiles!_ Scott is fine. And you need to calm down- deep breaths...good...yes, one more..."

Stiles hasn't had a panic attack in ages. The fear of one, however, is still indelibly ingrained in him. That inescapable feeling of utter helplessness as you watch your own fears suddenly come alive and grow into frightening proportions, feeding off your own consciousness as it slowly chokes you, is not something you simply grow out of. Such things leave scars permanently carved into your very bones, festering deep within you all your life - they haunt you ceaselessly; and then at the slightest hint of weakness or desperation, return with a scorching vengeance.

"Better now?" he hears his dad say, but there's such a heavy pounding in his ears that he only hears it as the muffled echo of some distant, garbled, cryptic message resonating in his eardrums in slow, lazy waves.

Stiles nods mutely and then realising that his father cannot see him, says, "Y-yeah...I'm okay."

He closes his eyes as a sudden, unexpected prickle of hot tears threatens to rush out. If his dad hears the small sharp intake of air, he says nothing. In fact, neither of them says anything for a long time.

In the end, Stiles speaks first. "So what is it?" he says, surprisingly calm.

His dad lets out a sigh - not one of those _Oh god, I can't believe I actually helped bring this thing into the world!_ kind of sigh, but the sort that escapes the lips of a man who has stripped himself bare of every last shred of strength he had, trying to hold together the crumbling remnants of an impossible dream. He sounds old and tired; fragile and falling apart.

"Dad, wha- "

"Stiles...I haven't been a very good father to you, have I?"

"_Dad!_"

"No, Stiles...you are my son, the only family I've got...and- and- tonight I came home and I was just sitting here all alone in this old house...thinking about us - you, me, your mother...and then I realised something...I have never been there for you, Stiles, all these years. I don't even have enough memories of us. I think I've...missed out on your life, son. What does that say about what kind of a father I've been?"

For the longest moment Stiles is speechless. As far as conversations with his dad went all his life, it's been a constant game of little lies and awkward small talk. The big stuff they always by-passed, circum-navigated, skirted, mutually ignored in unspoken agreement. Sometimes, when his dad was in a particularly good mood, they discussed some of his cases. And while they might have micro-analysed other people's problems, theirs they never did. It has never exactly bothered Stiles till this day; and if indeed there ever arise questions that need answering, there's always the vast wasteland of half-baked advice and _at your own peril_ life-lessons to be scavenged from in the _be all, end all_ form of the multi-headed monster - the internet.

And if all else fails, he has Scott - _had_ actually, since they're not on speaking terms anymore. Still, in those days, they were once inseparable - and yes, Scott might not have been his best option but he didn't have much anyway to begin with.

The point is, an attempt to recollect the last time he and his dad have had a meaningful conversation on a serious topic returns about zero results, which, truthfully, is certainly more than he can give. Over the years he has often tried to trace back through time to when they had fallen into this convenient neglect, but then it has always proven to be more trouble than it's worth.

"Dad," he says at last, a strange emotion - one he hasn't felt in a long, long time - welling up within him. "I wouldn't say it's been easy on either of us all these years since- since mom passed away, but I don't think for one second that we'd be having this conversation tonight, right now, if we didn't get atleast _some_ things right down the road. I think we're okay. In our own way. Somehow."

"Stiles- "

"And dad," - Stiles is smiling, a warm nostalgic smile - "don't even think about apologising, because though it's not been perfect, I think we've always had each other's backs when it came down to it. We made it, _all limbs and appendages attached_, and that must count for something!"

The Sheriff lets out a soft chuckle. "Look at us," he says, and Stiles knows that he's smiling from the way his voice suddenly lights up. "You lecturing me! I guess we'll be alright after all."

Stiles laughs heartily, throwing back his head. He feels better than he's felt in a very long time. He would like to think that his life is finally taking a turn to happier places - he's got a _not date_ with one of the hottest guys he's _ever_ seen; and somehow things seem to be finally simply falling into place between him and his dad. Only he should have known after having lived eighteen years as Stiles Stilinski, that the mighty forces of the universe would be an utterly spent, gooey lump of impotent nothingness before they let anything of the slightest consequence, happiness_wise, _even approach the sparse, arid vicinity of his little life.

If this realisation had not dawned on him yet, it most definitely should have when he presently turns his head carelessly to the side and sees the bright red glow of his digital alarm clock staring back at him ominously from the bedside table, almost as though it were some miniature (but equally potent, if not more) manifestation of Sauron's _all-seeing_ eye. Of course nothing foreboding seems to be gathered from all these still, and Stiles only registers a small expression of mild surprise when he sees the time.

"Dad," he says immediately, sounding concerned, "it's six-thirty here, so it must be...um...around three-thirty over there! You should go to bed now. You're not getting enough sleep, are you?"

"Is it already?" his dad replies, laughing - but Stiles can hear the obvious tiredness in his voice and it upsets him deeply that things couldn't be easier. He knows that for his dad, his job is so much more than simply a means to provide for his family. Stiles has never been able to understand it, and eventually he'd come to simply accept it.

"Dad, you need to take care of your own life too, you know," Stiles says, somewhat bitterly.

"I'll catch some sleep down at the station," the Sheriff says after a brief pause.

"Okay, then," says Stiles, letting out a loud yawn as he stretches sitting on his bed, "catch some now too."

"Hey, son," his dad says, suddenly sounding serious, "I'm very proud of you. And if your mother was still alive, I'm sure she'd be even more so."

Stiles sits very still for what seems like an eternity. "I love you, dad," he says at last.

"I love you too, son."

After they hang up, Stiles curls up in his comforter and sobs into his pillow. One and a half-hour later, his alarm goes off and he wakes up smiling.

There's a missed call notification waiting for him. He had dropped his phone beside his pillow after his dad's call and had obviously not heard it buzzing there. It's from Lydia. He decides not to call her back right now - he has to rush to class, and besides, she probably just called to say _good morning_. He flings his phone back on his bed and jumps into the shower.

It's only when he's already on his way to class that his phone buzzes again. It's Lydia. Immediately he senses that it's something urgent and anxiously answers the call.

"Hey, Lydia! Good- "

"Stiles!" Lydia cuts him short, out of breath. There's a lot of chatter in the background. She seems to be running, from her sharp gasps.

Stiles is suddenly worried. "Lydia!" he says warily. "Are you alright? What's going on?"

"Stiles!" Lydia gasps again. And this time Stiles is seriously very concerned. Because if that isn't a sign of some terrible news about which he is soon to be enlightened, Stiles doesn't know what is. "I...am...so...sorry..." Stiles swallows a glob of something unpalatable as Lydia pauses to catch her breath. "I...should have...told you earlier..."

Stiles is alarmed now, a deep set fear taking root within him. "Lydia, what are you talking about?"

"It's about Derek..." Lydia says, almost in a whisper. "I...I- I'm so sorry, Stiles..."

The line goes dead. A cold dread settles over Stiles' entire being as he tries dialling Lydia's number but gets directed to her voicemail instead. Over the course of the day he tries calling her, several times, but to no avail. To add to his great anxiety and bewilderment, Professor Derek Hale is absent today. By the end of the day he's so fucking worried he has to literally walk out of his last class for fear he just might vibrate out of his skin sitting there. He tries to soothe his nerves by telling himself that Lydia must have simply switched off her phone to avoid being disturbed in class. Which she obviously would have been - disturbed, that is - had his pestering calls actually gone through. This logic, however, fails miserably under the pressure of concerns and worries of a far superior magnitude.

In fact, by now, there's very little doubt in Stiles' mind that he is very soon about to become the receiver of some unpleasant news. Lydia's completely bizarre call this morning had made that much clear. What he does not understand is how Lydia is acquianted with Derek at all. She seemed pretty distraught during the brief time they had talked. And, to make matters so much worse, he hasn't been able to contact her since. He hopes she's doing alright, wherever she is, and that she'll get in touch with him soon.

In the meantime, he's going to refocus his entire disgruntled ire on the head of a certain Derek Hale, who is conveniently missing from the scene by the way. All this would have been so much easier to deal with had he been here. Which is precisely why Stiles is so not letting this slide by when that beefy buffoon does decide to show up. He hates being not in the know. Ignorance you see, my dear fellow, has got absolutely nothing on bliss; in fact it's fucking torture. And Stiles can't stand it _at all_.

Worry gives way to blind, probably ill-advised, conjecture on the fate of his current bff, Lydia Martin, when he does not hear anything from _or_ about her even by evening. It's a pretty fucked up situation, and Stiles is sure he wouldn't be half so riled up had he not received that very disturbing call from Lydia this morning. When someone suddenly disappears after making some bizarre, cryptic call, there arises sufficient reason to worry over said person's welfare.

When he gets back, Jackson definitely senses that something's on his mind and makes a series of repeated enquiries after it. But what does Stiles say? That his _ex_-girlfriend and him are now bffs (because Jackson most definitely does not know about this _affair_); that she had made a very disturbing call to him only this morning, from which he has gathered that somehow it concerned Derek Hale - yes, _that_ Derek; and that, worryingly enough, he has been unable to reach her ever since?

_Nope_, definitely not happening.

So he tells him one truth instead, to conceal another more pressing one. "It's Derek," he says nervously, and Jackson immediately raises an eyebrow, looking _very_ interested. "We- we sorta have a date tomorrow night. Well, technically it's not a date, but I've long chosen to live in a state of constant denial about that fact. So...yeah, I'm pretty stoked about it, but..."

"Don't even worry about it," Jackson says, flashing him an enormous lop-sided grin, before giving him a light pat on the shoulder. "I've got your back. That Derek guy won't even know what hit him tomorrow night. You _are_ hoping to get laid, aren't you? Well, lemme tell you, Stiles, _you_ are going to have the best fu- "

"_Oh. My. God._"

"_What?_ Oh, come on, it's not like you don't want it. You practically screamed your approval last night- "

"I can't believe I'm actually having this conversation right now!"

As Jackson shoots him a bemused expression, Stiles is glad he has atleast one person in the whole world right now, to laugh with, hard to believe as it may be that _that_ person - against all odds - happens to be Jackson himself. But then in just this past one year so many relationships he never doubted would endure have been reduced, almost overnight, to mere memories that this particular chance is not a fact that difficult to accept anyway.

It is only much later, as he lies alone and troubled in bed, that he realises he knows literally next to nothing about Derek Hale - apart from his name and the fact that he is a professor at Columbia. Come to think of it, _who the hell is Derek Hale anyway?_ To Stiles, that is. An apology can only stretch so far and who's to say there are no strings attached - _ulterior motives_ (though Stiles can hardly think up one) - to this, supposedly, _not date_.

For the first time Stiles begins to wonder. And that can hardly be a good start to _any_ relationship - pretend or otherwise.

**~ooo0ooo~**

The following morning, however, Stiles can hardly sit, stand or even _be_ still. There's a big, goofy grin on his face that refuses to budge, or even dial down for that matter; and he actually begins to feel bad for having mercilessly teased Scott's smitten ass back in the day, with the deepest relish at that. Jackson, surprisingly, does a highly commendable job of not ridiculing his own hopeless butt to oblivion. Stiles is very impressed - and much more than that, extremely grateful.

The only thing he can say about his classes today is that it's all too much of a blurry mess of a memory to be recollected with any warrantable certainty. Infuriatingly enough, Derek is absent today as well. And amidst all this uncertainty Stiles realises that Derek hasn't told him when he'd be coming to pick him up - or where they'd be meeting, alternatively. If this isn't troubling enough, there is also the fact that he's not seen or even heard from Derek since their last meeting. Somewhere deep inside, Stiles gets a feeling that something is not quite right - though he has absolutely no idea what that might even be.

It is with these unsettling thoughts that Stiles returns to the apartment and immediately hops into the shower. The warm water is a soothing relief to all the anxiety that has been building up all day. Too soon, however, it's back with an even more powerful force and he has to abandon the barely adequate confines of the shower cubicle to seek comfort in other more tasking activities to distract himself.

He picks out a dark-blue shirt to wear tonight and occupies himself in ironing it. Having done this, he goes on to select a pair of light-brown pants - his favourite one actually - and a grey jacket. _That should do it_, he thinks. Shouldn't it?

Thankfully Jackson arrives just then, sparing him from possibly making the fashion blunder of the century. He would probably never admit it out loud, owing undoubtedly in greater part to the extremely shameful nature of the fact, but Stiles has never really been on a _date_. Like _ever_. He's tried once, and only once; and the memory of the resulting story scares him even today. In fact, he has never _ever_ had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, for that matter. Jackson, on the other hand, is totally on the extreme opposite side of the spectrum. He has experience, unlike Stiles - lots of it. And although he would probably _never_ trust him with his life, _this_ he can - with great faith. And so he does.

"To tie or not to tie..." Jackson observes thoughtfully before he declares solemnly: "To tie. Since this is _apparently_ just a formal dinner, no strings attached. And...with that shirt, probably a...red one. Do you have it?"

"Do I have what?" asks Stiles, utterly lost.

"_A tie!_ A red tie."

"No- I mean, yes- not a red one though. I have a blue one with little swirls on the- "

"That won't do," Jackson dismisses him disinterestedly.

"Why is it so important for it to be red? Also, do I _have _to wear one anyway?"

"Because red is _hot_ - trust me, you don't want to take me up on it, lots of hard fieldwork have gone into ascertaining it. And what's more, I'm sharing it with you for _free_. So just be grateful and don't argue."

"_Oh...kay..._" says Stiles, letting out a low whistle at the end - because shit, this is some serious stuff right here.

"You can borrow mine," says Jackson, looking extremely pleased with himself.

"Thanks but I think I'll quickly go grab one from the shop around the block. I can't just sit here doing nothing."

As he exits their apartment, he hears Jackson shout after him: "Good idea! You can't keep borrowing mine..."

Stiles shakes his head with a chuckle and promptly takes the elevator down. The shop really is just around the block - a couple of minutes' walk at most. There are not many people inside when he walks in, and he finds a nifty red tie fairly easily. A female attendant hands him the small package, all smiles. He smiles back with a small nod and starts heading back, feeling surprisingly good about everything.

He sees the black Camaro come to a stop outside his apartment building just as he reaches there. At first he doesn't pay it any attention. He's just about to walk in when he sees Derek climb out of the driver's side door. All of a sudden he's panicking. Because- _oh god, Derek's already here and he's barely even dressed yet!_ This has got to be the most embarrassing start to any date in the sad and long history of embarrassing dates. But then, isn't Derek a little too early? Stiles is sure it was just nearing five when he stepped out, and it's hardly been twenty minutes since. _Doesn't matter!_ What's important is that Derek is here already and he needs to get his scrawny ass dressed asap. Derek probably has other plans tonight after all.

Stiles is calmly trying to slip in unnoticed when Derek sees him. He stops in his tracks and smiles innocently instead. Derek, however, looks like a series of weird spasms has broken out all over his face. To be honest, he looks terrified, as if Stiles has somehow morphed from his _hey kid, beat it!_ state to an object of unimaginable terror. As he stands there staring, _very_ confused, the passenger's side door opens. Derek makes a sudden aborted move as though he is trying to warn whoever it is that is stepping out, oblivious.

Stiles only sees the blonde curls at first - but then that is all he needs to see. _Strawberry blonde_ - he'd recognise that anywhere. At first he's surprised and elated; and then everything starts to slowly make sense. An unfamiliar emotion storms inside him. Lydia still has not noticed him as she removes her sunglasses, tosses her hair, and turns to flash Derek a smile. His expression seems to quickly alert her as she instantly turns back around to face Stiles, her own expression unreadable.

Stiles cannot say what he's actually feeling right now - betrayed, angry or jealous. Perhaps a mixture of all the three. He feels hot tears already running down his face, because damn if this isn't humiliating. He cannot remain here any longer. He turns around abruptly.

"Stiles, wait!" he hears Derek call out, and he hates himself for actually stopping. "Stiles, I can- I can explain."

"There is nothing to explain, Derek! Just...go away. You too, Lydia."

He bolts inside and runs up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. As he marches into their apartment, Jackson walks out of the kitchen, takes one look at him, and instantly grows alarmed.

"Stiles? What- "

Within seconds of his entrance there's loud banging on their door. Stiles opens his mouth to warn Jackson but he's too late. The door swings open to reveal Derek and Lydia standing there side by side, totally out of breath. Jackson takes a step back, startled.

"_Lydia?!_ What are you doing here?! ... And who the hell are you?"

"Stiles, you've got to trust me, it's not what you think," Lydia says, looking past Jackson at Stiles.

"Jackson, don't even- !" cries Stiles as the other makes a motion of stepping aside. He takes one long look each at Derek and Lydia, then slams the door shut.

"_What the hell_ is going on?!" demands Jackson, looking from the door to Stiles and then back.

Stiles only grits his teeth and walks back toward his room. Exactly. What the hell _is_ going on? Stiles would very much like to know that.


	5. Chapter 5

The incident upsets Stiles more than he would care to admit - it rattles him to his very core, leaving him very confused about how he actually feels. He thinks he's just mildly disappointed, then he's angry, then he's curled up in the infamous, dreaded feotal position (a position Stiles can hardly bring himself to believe he's actually been reduced to) thinking to himself that he could never face either Derek or Lydia ever again. It's an all-time low even for his pathetic excuse of a life characterised by a pungent seasoning of perennial _low-dom._

Thankfully it's the weekend. There's a sufficient interval of time to wallow in his miserable wretchedness in the dark confines of his bedroom before he has to face the gruelling onslaught of the insufferable plague of human society and its intolerable annoyances. In fact, the thought itself is so troubling that Stiles has to bury his face in his pillow once again and let out an unearthly wail of utter despair over all the unfairness in the world currently gathered over his own head in the shape of a dark and menacing storm-cloud.

"_Stiles_, will you stop doing that _please_!" Jackson's exasperated voice coming from the other side of the door suddenly interrupts him mid-wail.

"Go away, Jackson," he wails back in a heart-wrenching martyr's voice. "You have no idea what I'm going through."

"You can't hide in there forever, Stiles," Jackson _reminds_ him for the millionth time.

"I'm not hiding, Jackson," he informs Jackson for as many times.

"Look, just please come out and we can talk about this, okay?"

"I don't wanna come out."

"Fine, suit yourself. I brought you some curly fries because I was somehow under the impression that you'd appreciate all my concern. Apparently you're just gonna be a big stubborn baby."

Well, this certainly changes things.

"Leave it outside my door. I'll- "

"Ha! As if! You know what, I'm tired of being so nice to someone who couldn't even care less. I'm gonna take all these to the kitchen and stuff myself. And _you_- you can starve to death in there for all I care."

Dead silence.

"Jackson? ... Jackson!"

Stiles sinks back into his pillow with a huff before abruptly pushing himself up and stumbling off the bed. A quick glance at his alarm clock - that spawn of Sauron - tells him he has shut himself in for three hours now. There's definitely no point torturing himself any longer. He has been lying in here listening to everything that has been going on outside. The banging on the door, Derek and Lydia pleading to be let in, Jackson demanding to know what was going on. And then after a while it all stopped and there was only silence. Which ironically seemed to be even more deafening than all the cacophony that preceeded it.

Stiles decides he has had enough. Of all the self-pity he has been wallowing in, of feeling sorry for himself. After all it was through no fault of his that things turned out this way. He reaches for the door-knob, takes in a deep breath, assures himself that he is most definitely _not_ doing this for the curly fries about to be devoured without him - though it certainly is a painful thought - and swings the door open.

"Hey, sourpatch, I see my plan to use your curly fry addiction as a bargaining chip worked after all. How predictable. And boring."

"No, it didn't. Me coming out has got nothing to do with the curly fries- wait wha- what the hell are you doing outside my door, Lydia? And how did you get in? Actually, ignore the first question, it was just a reflex vomit of words of surprise. Answer the second one though- "

"Jackson let me in," Lydia, dressed in red businesswoman blouse and skirt with matching stilletos, handbag and lipstick; informs him nonchlantly, curling her fingers and examining her nails, the colour of which of course matches the rest of her, with a satisfied smile. "Oh and I think we can all safely agree that there is really no point _coming out_ now. _We all know._" That last part is intimated to him in the form of a really loud whisper.

"Damn, these fries are good!" Jackson plods out of the kitchen with a mouthful of curly fries, nodding appreciatively; then noticing Stiles' painstakingly constructed _Explain your actions, mortal, and your life will be spared!_ expression: "Seriously, Stiles, do you think I had a frickin' choice?"

"Yes, I can be quite persuasive," Lydia says absently, still engrossed in her impeccably manicured nails.

"Lydia, why are you here?" Stiles asks with a heavy letting out of breath held too long. "And where is Derek?"

"Derek's gone home," Lydia replies matter-of-fact'ly, looking up to meet Stiles' wavering gaze.

"Hm," Stiles says simply, looking away and pursing his lips as a dull ache tugs at him deep inside. Lydia, the girl he had been _in love with_ for a greater portion of his life so far, and Derek, the only person who Stiles had thought liked him enough to ask him out; the one with whom Stiles had thought he could finally know what it felt like to be in a relationship. Because let's face it, he has never had a shot with Lydia, who is he kidding. Now it's like an excessively cruel practical joke has been played on him all along.

"Stiles, we came to talk," says Lydia, taking the few steps forward necessary to bridge the distance between them and taking his hands in her own, squeezing them gently. Reluctantly Stiles stops struggling to pull free. He knows Lydia would never hurt him intentionally. Besides, with Lydia, he can never stay mad for long. It's been an Achilles' heel for him since forever. And right now, he is smiling and Lydia smiles back at him.

"Okay what is going on here?" Jackson demands from across the room, staring at them like he just caught them in the act of doing something utterly horrifying. "Because I am confused. I- Are you two...? Did I miss something while I was in the kitchen?"

Lydia rolls her eyes and lets out an irritated sigh. "_Nothing_ is happening, Jackson. You can scoot back to the kitchen while we _talk_."

"It's alright, he can stay," Stiles offers quickly as a confused expression crawls into Jackson's face.

"Hm," says Lydia, looking from Stiles to Jackson and back with an amused smile. "Fine," she declares curtly and crosses her arms, with an expression that is clearly meant to convey something along the lines of _I don't approve of this idea and I'm only going along with it because Stiles is my bestest friend and he asked so nicely, but try any funny business and I'll forget to be polite_. Yes, indeed, Stiles has grown particularly good at reading the many nuanced displays of Lydia's expressions - hardly surprising considering he has devoted over a decade of his life to deciphering all of those directed at him and other equally unfortunate souls.

"How do you even know Derek?" Stiles asks, the most pressing question on his mind right now.

"I'm his agent," Lydia chirps brightly, tossing her hair and proceeding to saunter across the room toward the kitchen, the boys stumbling along close at her heels.

"Whoa, what like a _secret_ agent? Double oh seven?"

"_What?_" Lydia turns sharply on her feet to give Stiles a highly judgemental look, like she is suddenly concerned about his mental health. "No, you idiot, like a _book_ agent."

"I thought you were at MIT," Stiles says, giving a quizzical twirk to his eyebrows.

"Yes, and I also know someone at Random House," Lydia replies with a truimphant smile, before turning around and proceeding on her pilgrimage to the kitchen.

Jackson and Stiles exchange _What the fuck_ looks behind her back and then Stiles snatches the bowl of curly fries from Jackson and this time it is only Jackson with a _What the fuck_ look and Stiles only shoots him a pointed _That belongs to me, bitch!_ look.

"Derek writes books?" Stiles stops in his tracks.

"Not yet," Lydia replies without turning around. "Nice place you guys got here. Probably need a complete interior design overhaul though."

Jackson inflates noticeably beside him, as he inhales and curls his lips into an irritatingly smug smirk. "Thank y- "

"I was only commenting on its _potential_, Jackson," Lydia interrupts his Oscar speech. Jackson looks badly scalded and resigns himself to simply shrugging it off with an _It gets better_ look. "And yes," - shifting focus to Stiles now - "Derek _is_ writing a book. It's serious business, and he's got half-a-million dollars in advance. Except now, the prospects are not looking too good."

"Did something happen?" Stiles has to prod, curiosity peaked.

"Yes, and no. Everything was going perfectly well, until you, Stiles, had to come and ruin it. No offence."

"_Me?_" Stiles is confused, _very_ confused.

"Yes, Stiles, you. Remember the _taxi ride with mysterious sex god_ you told me about the other day?"

"You had sex _in a cab?_" Jackson turns to look at him, eyes literally gleaming with the multitude of inappropriate stuff sparking to life behind them.

"_What? No!_" Stiles laughs nervously, but his game is up because Lydia is utterly fascinated by all the _interior design_ on the ceiling. Only she is not and is actually very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"Derek won't like this," Jackson says, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"I think Derek kinda _liked_ it, actually," Lydia says nonchalantly.

"So he actually had sex _with Derek?"_

"No- "

"Yes, he did. And what do you mean by _actually_?"

Stiles, horrified, turns to look at Lydia who is calmly seating herself down at the kitchen island. "Jackson, please don't answer that!"

Lydia only shrugs and continues unperturbed: "I had to fly over immediately to try to dissuade him from breaking the contract. But he's made up his mind."

"So you were at the airport yesterday when you called me?" Stiles says slowly, as the situation starts to make some sense. "You had me worried the whole day!"

"I'm sorry about that," Lydia says. "You should go and talk to him though. He really likes you."

"Yeah, right," Stiles laughs drily.

"He really does. He's never asked anyone out in years, not after what happened with- The thing is, the fact that he has asked you out means that you really mean something to him."

"How do you know so much about him?"

"His sister, Laura, is my dad's new wife." Lydia seems pretty comfortable with talking about this personal stuff.

"Oh," Stiles manages, because what else does he say? _Congratulations_?

"She's pretty cool," Lydia informs him reassuringly. "And she gave me a suite at The Triskelle so I can't complain much."

"The _Triskelle_ Triskelle?! And Derek's sister just _gave_ you a suite in that luxury palace?"

"Yeah, she owns the hotel."

"_Seriously?!_ Then the Hales are um..._rich_?"

"Yeah." Lydia pauses thoughtfully. "Hm...my stepmom's a millionaire. I never thought about it like that."

Stiles cringes as an unwelcome thought suddenly worms itself into his mind. "So I guess that makes Derek your...uncle. _Lydia_, I can't go out with your _uncle!"_

Lydia sighs sympathetically. "He wasn't my uncle three months ago. Besides, _I_ would totally go out with him if he asked me."

It is one of those extremely rare moments when Stiles is utterly at a loss for words.

"Okay, I'm just kidding," Lydia laughs, looking a little confused by Stiles' lack of clever retort. "_But_, I can throw in a good word for you if you like."

"No need," Stiles smiles ruefully. "I don't even know if I can ever look him in the eye again. And what did you mean earlier when you said it was my fault Derek decided to scrap his contract?"

Lydia looks at him with a sad look. "It's not your fault, Stiles. I was the one who talked Derek into doing it in the first place." Lydia lets out a really sad sigh. "Now that I think of it, it really is all my fault. I was too excited about the job. I didn't even think about it."

"Lydia, tell me what happened."

"I had a boyfriend at MIT."

It is an involuntary reaction, Stiles swears, as he turns to look at Jackson, who looks like he has temporarily lost control of his facial muscles. Even Lydia is looking at him with a strangely uncertain expression, as though gauging his reaction.

"And?" Stiles helpfully prods, because this situation could quickly escalate into something nobody would be too happy to find out what.

"Well we lasted all of two weeks, but he had been quick to introduce me to his family. By his family I mean their dog Pilot, his father's girlfriend Lisa, and his father Jack, who is a head editor at Random House. _And_ his father talked to a few people and got me an internship. I didn't know about Derek then, but Cora, his younger sister, is my roommate and she told me all about him. She literally won't stop talking about him so it was all I could do to listen. Then she told me about how Derek was in financial trouble but he wouldn't accept any money from Laura. I only wanted to help so I got his contacts and got in touch. I told my boss too and she _loved_ the idea, to put it mildly. He was reluctant at first but I managed to persuade him at last. Things were looking pretty good till about two days back. And _now_, it's all over."

"But why would Derek cancel his contract just because we- " Stiles screeches to a halt because- _what the hell is he saying, out loud!_ Lydia is giving him an amused look while Jackson's face seems to be screaming _Go on!_ "I mean, just because of _that_? How are they even connected? It makes no sense."

A pained expression creeps into Lydia's face. "I told my boss about Derek but what she was interested in was his surname. And high-profile scandals have always proven to be the staple of popular literature."

It only takes a split-second for Stiles to realise what Lydia means. "You mean the taxi..." Stiles trails off, unable to finish.

Lydia shuts her eyes and nods. "He never wanted to do it," she adds, as if that is gonna make him feel any better.

"Why- why would he even agree to something like that? Is that how much he thinks of _family_? Of himself?"

"We offered him anonymity," Lydia sniffs, almost on the brink of tears.

"But _you_ knew it was a lie, didn't you?" Stiles is angry, furious. "Anonymity would only defeat its very purpose. But you never told him that of course."

"I know it's no excuse but I was too excited about my new job to think with a clear head," Lydia says choking back tears, and it should break his heart because he never wants to see Lydia Martin cry, but right now he is hurting and he doesn't think he would care all that much if she did cry. "Stiles, I know it wasn't right to pressure Derek the way I did. But please just know that Derek never wanted to do any of this. It was supposed to be about the _sexual exploits of a rich, spoiled playboy_ creating our own story through real-life events, like a journal version of reality TV. The money was good. I just had to persuade Derek."

"Lydia, you don't do that to family, to people you care about," Stiles grits out bitterly.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Lydia sniffles woefully.

"Please don't cry, Lydia," Stiles says quietly, because truth is, he really can't bear to watch Lydia Martin cry.

"It was the day you met him in the taxi," Lydia says. "He called me up immediately after to tell me he couldn't do it. He said he didn't get the girl's name but then you called up later that night and told me a very familiar story. I should have told you right then but I was more concerned about that stupid job and instead hung up and booked an early morning flight to New York."

Stiles now knows the _real_ truth but that still doesn't make it any more easier to handle. How could Derek do this to him? How could Lydia even... How could the universe be such a pain in the ass _all the time_? The moment he thinks he's finally entering an era of prosperity and happy times in his life, someone or some train of events is quick to point out to him how utterly wrong he has been, that in fact a chain of really bizarre stuff has been going on all along without his knowledge, running silently beneath the surface.

Hey, he's beginning to run out of hope here. And that can't be a good thing, like _ever_. Because he has seen what losing hope can do to people, ordinary folk like you and I - they start doing crazy stuff! _Really_ crazy stuff. And while he can't exactly deny having the _crazy gene_ with a straight face, so far it has only led him to dabble in _reasonable, rational_ crazy. To take this to the next level of crazy would have to wait for a time in the distant future when he would have nothing to lose. And though he can't say with any degree of seriousness that the stuff that stand to be lost should the craziness decide to evolve into a higher level right now are worth that much anyway, the level of discrimination based on age in the mental health sector is appalling and Stiles would rather be an wizened old and crazy person living in the relatively safe confines of an old-age home than be a chained and locked up mentally disturbed youth because he is a potential threat to himself and society. Because everyone knows old people are only a potential threat to themselves but not anyone else really.

Okay, so the point is, he is quickly running out of hope and a wardrobe rehaul in the near future seems not too improbable. Do straitjackets come with designer tags?

Lydia says she needs to get back to her hotel and as she begins to gather her stuff, Stiles can hardly believe his eyes.

"Lydia, before you- before you go back can I um maybe- could we do something? No, I mean like- like a dinner or a movie...? Maybe?" Stiles might have let out an _awww_ right there because Jackson says that last part with such adorable hope in his voice, but then again his face right now looks like he's taking a huge dump, so..._no_.

It appears the chain of unexpected turn of events for the day has not been severed yet because Stiles is only half through formulating his condolence message for Jackson when he stops. Because Lydia is currently sporting the very clever_ I have already made up my mind but let me just play along for a while to give the appearance of thinking about it_ look.

And just as expected, after a few seconds: "_Sure_. Tomorrow night, I'm leaving Sunday."

Stiles _and _Lydia both have to roll their eyes not a moment after Lydia finishes because the look of _Who's the man?_ currently dancing all over Jackson's face is just..._ugh_.

At the door Lydia effortlessly gets rid of Jackson. "Jackson, could you fetch my phone from the kitchen please?"

"You still love him, don't you?" Stiles teases, as soon as Jackson is out of earshot.

"Don't tell him," Lydia warns him immediately.

"He might have something to say to you too," Stiles says slyly. "He's been watching _The Notebook_." And just for effect Stiles follows up with one of his sagely _I'm so sorry for your loss_ nods, which, ironically enough, seems to work for almost any situation.

"_What?!_ How could you not tell me?" Lydia looks absolutely flabergasted.

"I was going to tell you," Stiles protests weakly. "_Someday..._"

"Lydia, are you sure you left it in the kitchen? I couldn't find it there." Jackson returns looking utterly disappointed in himself.

"_Oh_," is all Lydia says and wastes no time fishing her phone out of her bag. "Never mind, I found it myself."

Jackson, of course, has absolutely no idea that Lydia is already playing him. But then it's probably for the best that way.

It is only at the very last moment that Stiles gathers enough courage to utter those words.

"Lydia, wait- could you uh tell Derek that...I...I'm really sorry I ruined our date tonight?"

Lydia's face breaks out into one of those _Finally!_ smiles. "Here, tell him yourself."

Stiles accepts the slip of paper handed to him, and yep it is Derek Hale's number. His heart is already racing just staring at it.

"Good luck," Lydia says with a smile and steps out the door.

"Bye, Lydia," Jackson manages. Lydia doesn't reply but she does turn around briefly to flash a smile and a nod. Which is enough for Jackson.

"_I have a date with Lydia!" _Jackson comes bounding and literally screams in his face, shaking him vigorously by the shoulders as though trying to instill some of his unrestrainable enthusiasm into Stiles' unenergetic body.

Stiles, however, is in no mood or condition to join Jackson in his revelry because that piece of paper is already burning a hole into the palm of his hand, so he simply manages an unconvincing: "Way to go, Jackson!"

And when Jackson gets bored of projecting his _joie de vivre_ onto Stiles' botox face, obviously without much success, and goes off to find a more suitable place to find some kindred soul (hint: the club around the block), Stiles sits all alone on his bed, listening fearfully to the thunderous beating of his own heart.

_It's now or never_, he says to himself, and punches in that number on his dialpad.

"_Hello, Derek Ha- _"

"Derek, I- "

"_Stiles?_"


	6. Chapter 6

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry I ruined our dinner plans tonight," Stiles says quickly, very quickly. He wonders if Derek has even understood what he just said.

The reply comes after a measured pause. "Stiles, did Lydia tell you about the- "

"Yes, she did," Stiles says, with a resigned sigh. "The book deal, the- the taxi _thingy_...all of it."

"Wh- why aren't you mad at me then?" Derek sounds incredulous, even angry, like he is hurt Stiles is not mad at him. "I don't get it. Why are you even saying sorry? I should be the one- "

"Derek, I just want to listen to what you have to say." And that's the whole frickin' truth.

The pause this time is even longer than the previous one, uncomfortably long. "Can I start by telling you how sorry I am?" Derek says at last, sounding incredibly fragile. "And that I would do _anything_ to prove it to you?"

"Why didn't you just tell me earlier if you really are that sorry?" Stiles spits out bitterly. And damn it all if he feels absolutely betrayed. It's the very worst when you've been somehow led to believe that for the very first time in your life someone is actually interested in you - all jagged bones and a penchant for blabbering endlessly - and then you discover only too soon: _who was I kidding, really?_ "You could have just told me from the beginning and spared me all this, Derek! What am I supposed to do with myself now?" Stiles is shocked at his own words, swallowing back a bitter glob as he realises just how far he really has fallen.

"_Stiles_..." Derek's voice is all shaky and Stiles has to fight back an overwhelming impulse to just say _fuck it!_ and tell Derek that it's alright, that he's ready to make this work. "I- I was afraid you'd never want to see me again. And I couldn't bear the thought of losing you before I had even had you."

"_What?!_" Stiles' brain is now racing but he can't seem to be able to think, much less speak coherently. Even breathing has become a frickin' tiresome chore.

"I- I'm sorry, Stiles."

Derek hangs up abruptly. That last sentence is spoken in such a hurry and Stiles is left even more shaken and confused than he had already been. Because- _what the hell _just happened? No, like seriously.

He stares at the phone now clutched in both his hands in utter disbelief. So that is it then? Just like that? Everyone around him had always been making such a constant fuss about how _complicated_ relationships eventually become, and Stiles - blissfully free of all their woes - would only roll his eyes and tell them - especially a certain squinty-eyed, hopelessly romantic McCall - that the world would be a so much more bearable place to live in if only everyone stopped complaining all the time and actually put some more effort into tackling their respective problems. And that, just for the record, contrary to what everyone else seemed to naturally assume, _Stiles_ wasn't really keen on listening to all the visceral details of their malfunctioning relationships, thank you very much. And that, by the way, also contrary to popular belief, he had other more pressing issues to devote his precious attention to, atleast the very little his daily Adderall intake afforded him.

Now he isn't too sure he should have been so averse to the idea of actually getting the basics down, at the very least, through the many misfortunes of his friends' infamously tragic love lives. Because right now, he has absolutely no fucking clue as to what the hell just happened; what, for the sake of that last shred of sanity he is desperately clinging on to, he should do next - like, is it expected of him to actually _do_ something in this situation, and if yes, _god, would someone enlighten him asap, please?_; and most importantly, man, does he need a manual - or a basic flow chart at the very least - on the inner machinations of the mysterious and frankly really stressful realm of human relationships!

Not that he considers Derek and him ever having been in a _relationship_ to begin with - and if he did he's pretty sure it was just his hyperactive imagination - and Stiles is never one to get his hopes up without a valid reason, thanks to the numerous times he has been burnt - metaphorically and literally; but he is also pretty damn sure there had been _something_ going on between them, even though he can't quite say exactly what, frustratingly enough. And Stiles is most definitely not talking about what went down in the taxi that day, though it really was _something_ in it's own right - just not the sort of _something_ he's going on about here. It really is hard to explain but it's the sort of _something_ that you just know, without having to say anything. It's like you know it's happening and you don't even have to say to the other guy that it's happening because he knows that it's happening, too. Like when he's lying to his dad about why he absolutely has to be out late at night at a crime scene with Scott in tow and he knows that both of them are very aware of the fact that Stiles is making it all up but he blatantly and shamelessly lies anyway and his dad just sighs without a word.

To say that he is merely _confused_ right now would be doing his feelings a great deal of injustice because it would mean that he actually has some idea as to what just happened. Because he absofuckinglutely does not. He is simply not prepared enough (which is a _huge_ understatement by the way) for this kind of shit to happen in his life - he has no experience whatsoever and the very little he has from his lifelong crush on Lydia Martin simply doesn't cut it. Nothing has ever been this intense. He is hurting deep inside and frickin' scared that it's over - whatever it had been - before it's even had a chance. And he has no frickin' idea what to do, if there's even anything to be done.

Stiles needs help, and fast. He never thought the day would come when he'd be making this call, _forced_ to make this call - but let's just say his expertise lies in other _very important_ areas. And Stiles thinks it's pretty damn necessary that _that_ fact be made very clear.

"Mm...'Lo?" A very sleepy and familiar voice croaks from the other end. Stiles goes very still, struggling to say something, _anything_, and failing miserably. He can hear the sound of sheets rustling and knows that Scott is stirring awake, probably sitting up on his bed. Fuck, it's been what?- five whole months since he has spoken a word to his former best friend. What does he say now? He should have thought this through before making the call. Oh right, he was too busy shitting his pants, almost literally.

"Stiles?"

That familiar ease with which Scott says his name is enough to bring a smile to Stiles' face, and just for a moment he feels his heart empty itself of all its problems and anxiety. Stiles doesn't know why he called Scott instead of Lydia, like he would have normally done.

"Hey, Scott buddy!" Stiles lets out a happy chuckle at the end because he really feels better than he's felt in a very long time. He's missed Scott, a lot.

"You sound too happy for your own good," Scott says pointedly, stifling a yawn noisily and Stiles lets out a sound like he's absolutely scandalised. "So...first call in five months. What's the occasion?"

Stiles feels guilt wash over him like an insurmountable tsunami. It's not like he had consciously abandoned Scott after that bloody fateful night. In fact, Stiles hadn't even realised that he had practically ditched his best friend when he needed him the most until he woke up one fine day and realised that Scott was no longer in his life. They no longer hung out or even called or texted each other. He could have done something - in fact he had a whole armoury of stuff he _could have_ done - to get his best friend back, but he had been utterly petrified by the idea of crawling back, like somehow it was a sign of weakness. He had told himself that this was bound to happen, what with him moving to New York and Scott staying back at Beacon Hills. Then eventually he had come around to accepting the fact that he was just being a dick of a best friend and this time he was just plain fucking scared that Scott would never forgive him. By this time, of course, Lydia had slowly come to occupy Scott's place and inevitably Scott faded into the blurry background.

But none of it changes the fact that he had all but abandoned Scott when he should have been there for him. Sure Scott had been wearing his patience thin for months by then and it was only his deepest fears come true as Scott battled for his life that night - a fateful culmination of all the stuff that could have gone, and did go, wrong in their lives breaking the quiet composure they had managed to fake for months; but Stiles had always considered himself fortunate to have always had Scott in his life through all the highs and lows, and Stiles has certainly had more than his share of perilous lows. Scott had always been like this permanent fixture in his life: even when everything around him shifted and adapted with time, Scott had always been there just like he remembered him last, exactly the same.

And now, Stiles thinks, he finally has a chance to set things right. And if it's too late to do that, he would just have to fucking man up and put on a brave face, even though it would break his heart into irreparable pieces if Scott never forgives him.

"I am so sorry, Scott. I'm an idiot and the worst best friend that anyone could ever have. And I should have been there for you but I just ran away from it all. I've hated myself for so long for abandoning you, Scott, and I should have been understanding, even when everyone gave you hell about what happened, because come on, Scotty, I'm your best friend since forever and I frickin' know you inside out, even your secret kinks- okay that's totally beside the point- and I'm so fucking ashamed of myself right now for acting like a total coward, Scott, but if you could just find it in your heart to- "

"Stiles, it's okay. You don't have anything to apologise for. For the way you had to put up with me all those times, dude, I'd totally understand if you had simply walked away and left me to drink myself to death. But you never did, and I- I- Stiles, I can never thank you enough for that."

And that's just the thing about Scott. _And_ it never gets old. Stiles lets out a short laugh and the "dude, _what?!_" that echoes urgently from the other end is absolutely priceless.

"Nothing, I'm just glad we got that awkward talk out of the way," Stiles says, flopping down on his bed as an enormous weight feels lifted off his shoulders.

"Yeah, me too," says Scott, sounding just as relieved as him.

"Mmhmm," says Stiles absently as he picks nervously at a flower print on his bedsheet. "I...actually I uh called to see if you could help me out with something."

"Figured as much," says Scott without a hitch, not sounding surprised at all. "Since you disturbed my beauty sleep, this better be important."

Stiles has to gape momentarily into his phone like a daft goldfish (if any there ever were) because obviously Scott has become a little more snarky than he last remembered him having been. Good for him though, because having a healthy supply of sarcasm and witty remarks never put anyone at a disadvantage. Heck, Stiles survived highschool on them alone - and he hadn't even been trying that hard when he had done it!

Stiles clears his throat uncertainly as he tries to think up of the best possible way to open this can of worms. "So you know how I have flawlessly perfected the subtle art of- "

Scott's _here we go again_ sigh rudely interrupts him and Stiles lets out a sigh of his own. "I met someone," he says quietly, "and I am freaking out because I don't know what to do. Scotty, you've got to help me out here, dude."

Scott breaks into loud laughter and Stiles might have been offenfed if it were anyone else. "So the curse is broken then?"

"Lydia and I are good friends now, actually," Stiles informs him good-humouredly.

"_Oh...kay..._" drawls Scott, hardly sounding convinced. "So who's this new girl then?"

"Derrrrr..." - Stiles feels his ears grow exponentially hot - "..._ica_."

"_What?_"

"Erica," Stiles quickly corrects himself, even as he flinches inwardly at the very utterance of that name.

"Have you talked to her yet?"

"Yes, Scott, we kinda made out...once," Stiles states bluntly even as he feels a strange mixture of irritation and heat rise at the brief recollection, which he quickly pushes aside.

"_Oh_- oh!" says Scott, uselessly enough, adding uncertainly: "That's good..._right?_"

"At the time it was," Stiles says grumpily, rolling onto his back and staring up thoughtfully at the ceiling. "_Now_, not so much. We were supposed to go out on a _date_ tonight. Then something happened and everything went downhill from there."

"First date disaster?" says Scott, sounding like he's cringing at a particularly unpleasant memory of his own. "Dude, it happens like all the time! Both of you are nervous and you tend to mess it up sometimes. You have no idea how embarrassing it was when Allison and I first- " - Stiles clears his throat loudly and very implicitly - "right, okay, so yeah, it's okay, you can still give it another shot. Right?"

"It was bad," says Stiles, making a pained expression even though Scott can't see him, "real bad. I saw hi...errr with another guy, who I later learned was actually her uncle, but of course I had no idea _then_, so I uh kinda bolted."

"Uh oh," supplies Scott as if on cue, adding to the general cringe-worthiness of the situation. Thank you, Scott, for being such an awesome best friend.

"And then later I called him up to apologise," Stiles goes on, when he suddenly goes very pale.

"_Him?_" Scott asks timidly and Stiles' heartbeat goes up even higher.

"Mmhmm," Stiles manages, swallowing dreadfully. What he fears the most is how Scott would react. Stiles knows that Scott is usually _cool_ with a lot of stuff, but would he be okay with it if his best friend turned out to be...into guys? Honestly, Stiles doesn't know. This has never happened before. He has no back data to draw parallels from. Stiles can only brace himself and hope for the best.

"Dude, I _knew_ it!" Scott exclaims a little too enthusiastically and Stiles is weirded out in more ways than one. "Dude, you were wondering if gay guys found you attractive, like _all the time_, seriously it was hard not to get the vibe from you. No offence."

Okay, so is Scott saying that he had actually been paying attention all those times when Stiles had _sneakily_ rolled carefully camouflaged personal rants right past his nose in the assumed belief that Scott was too _dumb_, no offence, to notice anything - because this relationship has always thrived on the premise that Stiles was the _brains_ and Scott the inadvertent side-kick, no offence again. Subtlety was, or atleast Stiles assumed it was, never Scott's forte. This, however, changes a whole lot of things, several critical life choices Stiles would need to re-evaluate.

"Thanks, Scott, for speaking your mind with little to no regard for my feelings," he says grouchily, because if there's one way to lessen his own humiliation, it is to turn the whole thing on Scott. Seriously, what would Scott ever do without him - Stiles is astonished he has even managed to survive the past five months.

Apparently, though, Scott really is a changed man. "Yeah, right," he chuckles, even as Stiles gapes in disbelief. "So about the phone call...what happened?"

"I told him I was sorry I ruined our date," Stiles says, feeling his heart sink like lead, "and he said he was the one who should be sorry, and I might have mouthed off quite a bit, and then he said some really serious stuff like he was scared to lose me or something, and then he just hung up."

"Well, that's strange," observes Scott. Like Stiles needed reminding. "Do you think maybe it was all...you know, a bit too much for him to handle?"

"What do you mean?" snaps Stiles, sitting up with a start.

"What exactly did you say to him, Stiles?"

"Well...I might have- "

"_Sty-uhls!_"

"_Okay_...I told him, 'you should have spared me all this and told me from the beginning, because I don't have a fucking clue what to do with myself now'...I think."

"Maybe...maybe he thought you were too clingy, you know, it's just the first date, you should take it slow, dude."

"Nobody told me that!" Stiles protests defiantly. "How was I even supposed to know! But I don't think that's it, Scott. His voice and what he said next...he told me that he was afraid I'd never want to see him again and that he couldn't bear the thought of losing me before he had even had a chance...and then he just hangs up, suddenly. I mean, why would he do that after what he just said? Who does that?"

"Have you tried maybe calling him after that?"

"No, dude, I don't even know what to say to him anymore! You're the first person I called."

"Okay, okay...look, it may not be as bad as you think. What's his name anyway?"

"Derek." It hurts to even say that name now. "Derek Hale."

"No fucking way, dude!" Scott sounds feverish. "And if he's even remotely related to a luxury hotel chain, I'm gonna punch you in the face."

"Do you know him?" Stiles blurts out incredulously.

"Kinda. Allison told me about him. Her aunt, Kate, was engaged to him once but I guess she did some pretty shitty stuff and seriously fucked him up because Derek broke off the engagement and Allison now only refers to her as _that heartless bitch_. She doesn't talk much about it though."

"What the fuck, Scott!" Because that's all Stiles can manage to spew out right now.

"I think I get it, dude," Scott says in a grave tone that doesn't make Stiles feel any better, "maybe he's still hurting from whatever happened in the past between him and Kate. It's not like I can't relate, seven months later it still hurts."

"So what am I supposed to do then? Lend him a crying shoulder, watch feel good movies together, feed him tons of choclate and icecream, cuddle him to death - _what?_ Dude, I didn't exactly sign up for this!"

"Stiles, maybe you just need to give him time. Maybe...maybe he'll come around soon."

"_Maybe_? What if he never does, Scott? Dude, I can't stop thinking about him! I _need_ him!"

The gravity of his own words shocks Stiles, leaving him breathless. "I don't understand," he says, the words leaving his mouth in a near whisper. "He looked so confident and happy and cocky when we first met. You'd hardly think that..."

"Stiles," Scott's voice comes packed with emotion through the speaker, "I think you shouldn't give up. If you feel that strongly about him, trust me it _will_ be worth it."

"You think so?" Stiles asks hopefully.

"You bet! Just try leaving him small messages from time to time, so he knows you're thinking about him."

"Okay- "

"_Do not_ spam his inbox though."

"Dude, I got it, don't worry!" Stiles laughs.

"No, seriously, with _you_, that was a cause for genuine concern. And then later you'd blame me that it was my idea."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Thanks for looking out for me, Scotty," he says, his heart filling up with warmth.

"Anytime," Scott replies and it sounds like he is grinning stupidly, which is just damn fucking adorable.

"So you're doing okay now right?" Stiles asks, genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, college is great."

"I meant _you_, Scott."

"I'll survive."

There is such a sad resignation in the way Scott says it that makes Stiles just wanna reach out and hug his best friend through the phone. He doesn't say anything about it, though, because there's been enough drama for one night already. They hang up not very long after and Stiles lay quietly on his bed for several long minutes, mulling over everything that has happened today. He's glad he called Scott because everything seems so much less overwhelming now.

This thing with Derek, whatever it is, Stiles does not want to lose it. It's true Stiles does not have much _experience_, but even he can see that this is something worth fighting for. In any case, he does not have much say in the matter really, because Derek has already carved out a space for himself deep within Stiles' heart and is currently bit by bit making himself at home there, like he fucking belonged. The arrogant bastard. Does he even realise what he's doing to Stiles' brain, his heart? Actually, Stiles does not really care if his brain turns to mush. This feeling, this rush - it's all so new for him and it feels pretty fucking amazing. Except for the part where he feels a blade twisting into his gut everytime he thinks about how Derek might never be his. One thing is clear though - Stiles Stilinski is not abandoning ship, he's going down with it if he has to. After all he _is_ a Stilinski man.

There is so much going on in his head though, so much he wants to say to Derek, preferably as they lay exhausted in a tangled heap in the blissful comfort of post-coital lethargy. But that clearly ain't happening anytime soon, so he lets out a frustrated sigh and walks over to his reading table in a corner of the room. Slowly sitting down, he retrieves a pen from a holder containing an assortment of muti-coloured and some weirdly shaped writing instruments, flipping open a leather-bound notebook next and letting out yet another sigh.

_Dear Journal..._

As the words pour out of his heart Stiles hopes someday he'll be able to say all these to Derek, and more. For now this is as good as it gets. But it's not that bad - because one day he's gonna look back and realise that they have made it, Derek and him. Maybe they'll be far down the road by then, and maybe - just maybe - they'll have some kids of their own - Stiles would very much like one little baby boy and one baby girl, thank you very much - and he's open to either adoption or surrogacy. Then he's gonna stumble upon this journal full of his own feelings and thoughts and realise how through the years they've only become stronger and surer. Everything's gonna work out, he tells himself - he just needs to be patient.

When Jackson skips - literally - into their apartment later looking like he has indeed lost a little of his energy but definitely not his enthusiasm, Stiles is just finishing with making dinner - spaghetti and meatballs. Jackson stops in his tracks as he whistles his way into the kitchen and stares at Stiles in bewilderment. All through dinner Jackson refuses to believe that it's for no particular occasion. He offers to do dishes after, so Stiles decides to appease his curiosity just a little.

"It's gonna work out for you two," Jackson assures him, smiling genuinely, and Stiles has to grin back because his heart is gonna explode with love for all his awesome friends.

As he climbs into bed he grabs his phone and ponders undecidedly for an eternity on what exactly to say in his first text to Derek.

_i can wait. just don't take too long. good night, derek._

He presses the send button impulsively before he chickens out. Immediately a small tickmark tells him the message has been sent, and after a second or two, another one notifies him that the text has been delivered.

He yawns, feeling unusually drained, and then rolls over and stretches, preparing to take the inevitable plunge into oblivion, when his phone buzzes on the bedside table. It doesn't take him a second to grab the phone and excitedly open the reply from Derek.

_Good night, Stiles._

It isn't much but Stiles is overcome by an overwhelming rush of happiness. Derek actually replied! That's _got_ to mean something. _Right?!_

Grinning like an idiot Stiles stares at the text with an inexpressible surge of joy threatening to burst out, only it's the middle of the night and Stiles is pretty sure Jackson wouldn't be too thrilled at a repeat performance of a previous night's show, so he bottles it all up instead and eventually falls asleep staring at those three words that seemed to hold all the promise in the whole wide world for him.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles is going to kill Jackson - slowly and painfully. He has his head buried under three pillows but it is still not enough to block out the noise seemingly reverberating off the very walls of his room coming from the other side of the door. It doesn't help that the lyrics are unbearably cheesy.

_It's so easy to fall in love..._ the song continues and Stiles has to begrudgingly sever any lingering tie he had to his bed. It is seven o'clock on a Saturday morning and Jackson, evidently, is out of his frickin' mind. _And_ a hopeless romantic, if his choice of music is any indication.

Shaking the residual cobwebs of sleep still clinging on to his brain, Stiles picks up his phone and observes, just a little disappointed, that he has received no new text from Derek - though, hold on, _who the hell is that?_

_do u hv any plans 4 2nite? :P_

Stiles reads the text first, confused, before eventually realising that it is from Eric, from college, who, strangely enough, he doesn't even know what his surname is yet. Making a mental note not to forget to find out soon - because it just feels so weird when you only know someone by their first name, unless that someone is a pop culture icon or a baby - Stiles wonders how he should reply to this, honestly, troubling text. He can already faintly grasp an idea of the general direction in which this is headed.

_none that i know of, _he sends back after a few minutes' thought. He can already imagine what the reply would look like. Dropping the phone on his bed with a sigh, he lets out a really long yawn, stretching his limbs as far as they would allow, before plodding lazily to the bathroom.

When he emerges fifteen minutes later - fresher but not much less annoyed - of course the notification light on his phone is glowing blue with a new text. Two texts actually - and to his great dismay, both from Eric.

_wud u like 2 go check out dis new club?_

and the second one reads:

_wit me :3_

Seriously? Stiles can't help chucking to himself. Several points for that smiley though.

_sorry i actually wanna do some reading tonight. thanks for asking though._

Stiles can already imagine the disappointment on Eric's face when he reads that text, but he knows that it is better to politely refuse than to indulge him out of pity. He pockets his phone and steps out of his room. Thankfully the god awful music has come to an end.

In the kitchen Jackson is making pancakes. Obviously.

"Mornin, sunshine," Stiles is greeted with an overenthusiastic grin, which he finds just a little too much to handle this early in the morning. So he just frowns and pours himself a strong mug of coffee.

"Could you have atleast spared me the jarring musical trip to the 80's?" he then snaps annoyed, very annoyed indeed. "And why the hell are you making pancakes?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.

"Boy, are we bitchy today!" Jackson replies from the counter, completely occupied in flipping pancakes.

Stiles chooses to ignore any choice retorts that spring up to the tip of his tongue and instead closes his eyes to savour his coffee. He only opens them when he hears a plate being pushed in front of him. Pancakes and scrambled egg. Stiles raises an appreciative eyebrow earning him a _whatever_ look from Jackson. Stiles accepts the peace offering.

Later he descends on the couch with a copy of _To The Lighthouse_ on which he has a paper due in two weeks. For Prof. Derek Hale's class. Stiles is so nailing this paper. Derek _will_ be impressed. It turns out, however, Virginia Woolf is a tougher cookie than Stiles was prepared to take a nibble at, and two hours later he is swimming around in dizzying circles.

Before he realises what he's done the text is sent.

_couldn't u have picked something less horrifying to start the sem with?_

The reply comes surprisingly quick.

_That was just the appetizer._

Someone seems to be in a good mood. Stiles grins madly as his thumbs hover over the screen, ready to type out his reply. Should he go for it? He swallows hard. Here goes nothing...

_so do u have any plans for tonight?_

Stiles nearly drives himself crazy waiting for the reply because he's tapping his foot and drumming his fingers impatiently - and it takes _ages_ before Derek's reply arrives. He has almost given up hope when the familiar buzz alerts him to the text, and he instantly opens it to read, with the look of a man seeing the face of God.

_I'm kind of buried in work right now._

Oh god, what has he been thinking. Of course Derek has been engaging him in his texts because he was just being polite, despite being busy with work. And Stiles had been inconsiderate enough to not have asked him if he was free, shamelessly assuming that he was rolling on the couch all day in his pajamas, like him.

_i am SO sorry. omg i should have asked. u can go back to work now. no more annoying texts from me. sorry..._

Within seconds a text arrives. From Eric. Of course.

_np but lemme know if u change ur mind :(_

Stiles laughs, because such is his life. It's not Eric's fault though, Stiles knows that, and he smiles faintly as he types out a brief reply and sends it.

_i will_

Derek's reply takes a few more minutes to arrive.

_I don't mind. Do you have any plans?_

Stiles can't believe his eyes. He is chuckling uncontrollably when Jackson walks past him, eyeballing him with a weird expression on his face. Stiles only gestures at the novel lying face-down on his stomach. Jackson walks away shaking his head, unconvinced. Stiles, however, is already typing out his reply.

_no plans at all...besides getting cosy with virginia woolf._

And then quickly clarifies in a second text: _not at all in a sexual way. that's just weird coz she died nearly a century ago. whatevs u will be impressed by my paper._

Oh god, Scott was so right to worry about him spamming Derek's inbox. He's doing exactly what he agreed not to. He huffs out a breath he didn't even know he had been holding and drops his head back into the armrest, closing his eyes wearily.

Stiles anxiously awaits Derek's reply, which never comes, and it is only after thirty minutes have passed without a single text notification that he thinks he has probably done it. No surprise there. He flings his phone to the other end of the couch with a frustrated grunt and lay there for a greater portion of the day trying not to drown in an ocean of despair.

When Lydia comes over that evening, ready for Jackson and her date, Stiles is a fidgety mess haunting the apartment like a spirit with unfinished business. Staying still is an absolute impossibility - it's like he's going to go out of his frickin' mind if he stays still. Lydia looks gravely concerned.

"Derek, huh?" she says, pursing her lips.

He wants to scream "_Yes!"_ in her face because that is just how agitated he is right now, but he bites back his words. It probably shows on his face though because Lydia's face grows even more concerned.

"He's had a lot of stuff to think about lately but I'm sure he'll come around soon," Lydia assures him, obviously with good intent, but it only adds to his own misery because apparently Scott and Lydia are in cahoots now. "Stiles, he is dealing with a lot of guilt after all that's happened. And on top of that, he is worried about- a lot of other stuff, too. Just give him a little time."

Stiles wants to ask Lydia what _other stuff_ because she nearly said something before checking herself at the last moment. He also wants to ask her what she knows about Derek and Kate. But he doesn't, because somehow he fears he is not ready to find out just yet. Besides, he feels absolutely drained. So he just sighs loudly and slumps into the couch like deadweight.

"Can I use your bathroom?" Lydia asks after giving him a mother hen look.

"Sure. Just...through there." He points toward his room. Lydia smiles gratefully and follows his directions across the living room. Apparently she and Jackson are starting back up from scratch, because she would normally have followed Jackson into his room while he changed. He smiles, slightly amused.

There's a small scuffle just before the two stubborn lovebirds exit the apartment but it is settled quickly, and then Stiles finds himself all alone. It is only now that he realises just how lonely he feels - not because he is alone, but because for the very first time in his life he wants to sink back into the arms of someone and know that he is loved in more ways than he can imagine - and in an even more depressing development, he just wants to break down and cry himself to sleep. _Fuck!_ When did his life become this messed up? Oh right, ever since Derek Hale decided to just show up one fine morning and throw his perfectly composed life upside down with that flawless face, that smirk, that suggestive look in his eyes - everything Stiles might never _know_ again. And it scares him half to death.

This could be another long, painful night. Or not. He fiddles undecidedly with the phone in his pocket, even as his brain tells him that this is a stupid, a very stupid idea. In fact, he is just being pathetically desperate now. Which is just sad.

_hey so u asked me to inform u if i changed my mind..._

Stiles deposits his phone back in his pocket and proceeds to pace the apartment impatiently. He needs to get his mind off things. He needs a break from all this drama, which truthfully he had never invited _or_ expected, but which has now completely consumed his life. Besides, it isn't like he has any _feelings_ for Eric, by any stretch of the imagination. And hey, it's gonna be like his intro into the New York club scene. Which, while he isn't too sure whether to be excited or scared about, is gonna be something new for Stiles, in his totally mundane existence so far. And if he finds it too _mainstream_ for his tastes, he can always say sorry and head back home.

_awesome! otw to ur plc. eta 20 mins. ;)_

Stiles blinks at the text before slowly willing his thumbs to do his bidding. That is to say, type out a reply.

_u know where i live?_

It doesn't look like it in the text, thank god, but it is more of an accusation than a question as Stiles hits the send button. Because how the hell does Eric even know where he lives? This just got a shit ton more creepy.

_yep googled it :P_

Which, honestly, is the lamest lie Stiles has ever heard. He doesn't question Eric about it though and instead applies himself back to the task of pacing the apartment, already worried about how his plans for the night feels just plain wrong in so many ways. He _might_ end up regretting this for the rest of his life. The apartment is suffocating though and Stiles usually does not make his wisest decisions when he is so jumpy.

It is an enormous bouquet that greets him when he opens the door exactly 23 minutes later. The giant mass of lilacs move sideways to reveal a grinning Eric behind them, hair spiked and god is that a hint of mascara?

"Thank you," says Stiles, stunned for a few seconds, before awkwardly fumbling to receive the colossal floral heap, surprisingly light for its mass.

"Nice place," Eric observes wide-eyed, looking around the place as Stiles tries to find a suitable place to deposit the flowers, which, upon failing to find such a place several minutes later, he dumps on his bed.

"So...where are we going?" Stiles asks morbidly curious, as he eyes Eric speculatively. Eric isn't muscly but he is pretty toned as it is, and now dressed in a white T-shirt literally hugging him and displaying more of his assets, Stiles admits, not begrudgingly, that he does look _passable_. Which, by the way, is an observation and _not_ a compliment at all.

"Jungle," Eric informs him as they exit the apartment. "It's one of the newer gay clubs around here."

"A _gay_ club?" Stiles blurts out with all the surprise intact in his voice.

"Yeah." Eric gives him a nervous look. "You don't have a problem with- "

"No," Stiles cuts in quickly, forcing a completely non-creepy smile to manifest on his face. Eric smiles back looking relieved. All Stiles can think as they take the elevator down is that this night is going to be a first for him, in every sense of the word - and most probably in more ways than one, too.

The _Jungle_, it turns out, happens to be in one those parts of town that Stiles would probably never have dared to explore, if left to his own devices. Eric, however, apparently is no stranger to these parts and confidently leads Stiles up to the front door where they are let in at once.

Stiles lets out a small yelp of surprise as soon as they enter. He is so not prepared for this. The first thing he really sees after recovering from his short daze is a naked dude on a pole being groped by a couple of scary-looking bearded fellas - Stiles knows exactly what he's seeing but it still does not diminish the shock value of the sight. Eric tugs on his arm just as one of the men winks at him, literally causing Stiles to take a small step back in panic.

"Stiles, come on," he hears Eric shout into his ear above the deafening _Ale-Alejandro_ wafting past him in waves of heavy bass.

"Honey, are you lost?" one of the bored-looking trannies standing in a huddle nearby asks him in a gruff voice as Eric leads him past them toward the bar.

"I'm fine, thanks," he manages to shout back in reply, barely witnessing the look of utter pity fill the man's face, before he is dragged into a crushing sea of half-naked bodies rubbing on him from every conceivable direction.

By the time they reach the bar Stiles is totally out of breath. Eric takes one look at him and starts chuckling beside him, still holding on to his hand.

"Do you come here often?" Stiles asks him, as he carefully wriggles his hand free.

"Sorry," Eric quickly apologises before continuing, "Just a couple of times. I know the guy who runs this place."

"Oh," Stiles says as Eric leans over the counter to ask for two beers, followed quickly by a "come on, Johny!" as the bar-man turns around to look at Stiles with raised eyebrows. They get their beer nonetheless.

As they silently sip their drinks Stiles sees Eric looking over at him every now and then with a burning question on his lips but turning away everytime. Finally he has to let out a short laugh and demand: "_What?_"

Eric takes a sip before replying, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "You don't do this much, do you?"

Stiles purses his lips for a moment before shaking his head. "Not really. I'm more of an xbox and red bull kinda guy."

"Ah," says Eric before smiling a little shyly and taking another sip, still smiling. Then suddenly serious: "So do you have a boyfriend?"

Eric's question hits him like a ton of bricks. His heartbeat suddenly jumps with a growing tight knot in his stomach. His panic evidently flows into his face because Eric's face grows alarmed.

"I'm sorry I shouldn't have," he says, smiling sadly.

"It's okay," Stiles manages. "He- he's not really my boyfriend. I like him like a lot and I think he likes me too, but...we're taking it slow. For now."

"It's not Professor Derek Hale, is it?" Eric asks grinning.

Stiles chokes on his beer, nearly leaping up from his seat. "_What?!_"

"I'm just kidding," Eric laughs loud and long, while Stiles melts into a puddle in his seat in relief. "You two seem pretty close though?"

Stiles manages to shrug nonchalantly even as his heart skips a beat. "He's my best friend's uncle."

"That explains a lot," Eric nods, followed immediately by: "So have you ever had a blowjob?"

Stiles feels a spasm ripple through his face as he turns to face Eric, gaping. _What the hell?_ Eric only laughs again before calling out to _Johny_: "Two blowjobs, Johny!"

The tall, permanently frowning bar-man shoots him a frustrated look but gets their drinks anyway.

"You'll love it," Eric winks at Stiles, handing him one of the two pint-sized glasses, which Stiles accepts only half-heartedly, because despite the warm fuzzy feeling already flowing through him, he still has enough sense to remember his almost non-existent tolerance to alcohol. Eric pushes the glass into his hand, however, and grinning, takes his own before clinking them together.

Stiles smiles nervously before gulping down the drink, because Eric has already downed his and is currently looking at him expectantly. It burns his throat on its way down and he shuts his eyes tight against the sensation as he feels tears prickle sharp at his tearducts.

"Whoa!" he croaks out, pinching the bridge of his nose, even as Eric bursts out laughing, claps his shoulder, and calls out for two more.

Stiles wants to protest but suddenly he feels really prickly and light-headed. _Oh shit_, he thinks to himself as he gulps down two or three more blowjobs, egged on by Eric. Who looks surprisingly sober.

"The music is so loud!" he finds himself yelling into Eric's ear.

Eric grins, nodding. "Wanna dance?" - which apparently is a rhetorical question because Eric starts dragging him away from the bar even before he can form a reply.

_Dancing_ apparently is simply rubbing your bodies all over each other though. Sounds simple enough for Stiles. But not the way Eric is currently running his hands all over Stiles' body - under his shirt. It feels good, so good - but it's not right. Stiles pulls away short of breath, nearly losing his balance, only to be steadied by Eric's hand.

"What's wrong?" Eric asks, panic all over his face.

"I can't do this," Stiles sputters, nearly losing his balance again. "It's not right."

"Come on, Stiles," Eric breathes urgently, pulling them close and running open-mouthed kisses down Stiles' neck. Stiles' shivers, does not pull away; Eric smiles. "It's harmless fun."

Stiles' breath hitches as Eric licks all the way up to the base of his jawline, lingering briefly on the throbbing vein there, before whispering into his ear: "Just imagine I'm Derek."

That should have been the moment when he put his foot down and said no. But all of a sudden there's a voice at the back of his head: _what if?_ What if this is as good as it gets? He wants to pull away and stop this, but he can't. It's so good he can't get enough of it. And best of all, it's Derek.

He closes his eyes as Eric slowly puts his lips on Stiles', small fleeting kisses at first, then gradually building up to needy, rough ones. It's not very hard to imagine he's kissing Derek - not at all. The lack of stubble is a bummer though.

Slowly and hesitantly he lifts the bottom of _Derek_'s T-shirt and slides a hand up, tracing the contours of his abs all the way up to his chest, as Eric lets out a small whine and takes his bottom lip between his teeth, alternating between small nips and sucking gently, sending an involuntary shudder down Stiles' spine.

As Eric traces kisses down Stiles' open neck Stiles grabs Eric's ass and pulls him in. He needs this so bad. He crushes his already hard cock into Eric's thigh- _Derek_'s thigh- god, even their names rhyme- positioning his legs on either side of one of Derek's, thrusting furiously into the frustrating fabric that stands in the way. Stiles can feel Derek's cock too, unbelievably hard, pressed into his thigh as he thrusts violently. Both of them have already given up trying to do anything productive with their mouths, other than breathing rough and moaning, leaving the action to their hands roaming wantonly over each other's bodies and their hips thrusting urgently.

God, he's fucking Derek's thigh in the middle of a crowded dancefloor and it feels so good!

"Stiles!" Derek moans into his ear, high-pitched and urgent. "St- Stiles- I'm gonna- "

Derek's thrust stutters against his thigh but he does not stop, a primal sexual urge coursing through him, violent and needy. Derek shudders against him, slumping weightless onto him momentarily, as he jerks his hips roughly a couple of times, even as he breathes "fuck, Stiles- god, fuck- " into Stiles' neck.

As Derek pulls away from him, his eyes fly open, because fuck, he's not done here- and he's so close! He grabs Eric's shirt urgently, trying to pull him in, his mind set on one thing and one thing alone.

"How about that blowjob?" Eric smiles slyly and grabs Stiles by his hand before leading him away toward the toilets.

Stiles stumbles along very agitated with a rock hard dick in his pants. There are a couple of people inside but Eric does not wait. He crushes their mouths together briefly - and god, Stiles is dizzy because the lights in here are so bright - before getting down on his knees and proceeding to unbuckle Stiles' belt. A couple of cat whistles and wild cheering echo from some guys at the urinal and Stiles, almost through a haze, nearly buckles to the floor as Eric, in one swift motion, pulls both his pants and underwear down at the same time and hungrily takes Stiles' entire length into his mouth.

Stiles grips the edge of the washbasin and starts thrusting, on instinct, slowly and uncertainly into the warm enclosure of Derek's mouth. The guys in the room cheer louder and more racuously as Stiles grabs Derek by his hair and begins to thrust forcefully, making Derek gag more than once, but he can't stop.

"Fuck, keep going, boy!" one of the guys shout and Stiles begins to feel himself getting closer and closer.

Derek graps him by the hips as he starts to grow weak in the knees, stuttering briefly, but regains momentum just as someone shouts: "Don't stop now! Come on, let's see you blow your load all over that fag's face!"

It doesn't take much longer for him to come, inside Derek's mouth, just as he croaks hoarsely: "Derek, god- fuck, I love you!"

And then he's crumbled on the floor, sobbing. It just hurts too much for words. What has he done! It is a soul-crushing kind of realisation even in his wasted state and the tears just pour out uncontrollably.

"I'm going to throw up," he hiccups, and Eric, who had been buttoning up his pants, quickly rushes him to one of the cubicles and he retches into the toilet, feeling like his guts are being ripped out by a pack of wolves.

The next thing he remembers is being tucked into bed by Jackson, who looks really concerned and not at all amused at his current state.

"Jackson- " he begins but is roughly cut off by Jackson's commanding "Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Okay," he mumbles and rolls over as Jackson sighs and turns off his nightlamp and quietly exits his room.

He picks up his phone but the display is just too fucking bright and he may or may not have sent a text to Derek, probably saying goodnight or something equally insufficient compared to what he actually wants to say.

The full horror of his actions only hits him the next morning as his alarm goes off at eight o'clock and he wakes up grumbling with a splitting headache, reaching for his phone instinctively.

**Sent 1:24 am**

heyyy babe i love yyo soooooo mucj

**Sent 1:25 am**

i tjink i wanma sprnd th rrst of my liffe wuth uu

**Sent 1:27 am**

allsp ii yhinj u r soooooo hotttt

**Sent 1:28 am**

ii thonj abput u llikr allll thr tinee

**Sent 1:29 am**

i rreallly care aboyt u

**Sent 1:29 am**

ii woulld nrverr hurrt u lloke kate

**Sent 1:30 am**

i prronise

**Sent 1:31 am**

i llovvve u derrek

**Received 1:45 am From: Derek**

Good night, Stiles.


	8. Chapter 8

A greater portion of Sunday morning is spent listlessly in a state of nauseating hangover and severe mental trauma. After the initial horror gradually subsides, Stiles composes himself not without some tremendous amount of effort and immediately applies himself to the daunting task of actually thinking rationally - the _deed_ having been done, what are his options now? He can cope - in fact, he is actually pretty good at coping; he has been doing it all his life. But he absolutely cannot remain calm when all he can do is entertain the growing unease deep within him, gnawing at him like a parasitic worm, feeding him crazy thoughts - it's like he is a criminal on trial with an overwhelming pile of evidence and witnesses all testifying against him, and he looks all around and there simply is no way out. His own towering guilt is only secondary to everything he has laid to waste in one single irresponsible, inconsiderate, selfish act of self-gratification, and he knows that it is only a matter of time before the other shoe drops, too.

The first thought that strikes his mind is that it is all over, fractured into a million irreparable scattered shards. He is so beyond horrified at his own actions. He can't even bear to think what Derek would have thought of him last night as he had received all those texts - one after the other, each like a glimpse into the demented, dark place that was their origin. But the worst is what Derek _doesn't know_. In Stiles' mind, the memories fester like something rotting, filling him with disgust. It turns his stomach; it makes him sick with repulsion.

Jackson tells him how he had received a call from him around 11:30 last night, where Stiles had begged him, sobbing, to come and get him. Jackson and Lydia had rushed to the Jungle immediately, where they had found Stiles passed out in one of the toilets, lying in a puddle of his own vomit.

Thankfully Jackson does not press for details. There is a kind of unspoken mutual understanding between them now, as Stiles lay silently on the couch and Jackson sits across from him, engrossed in a copy of Time magazine. It's almost astonishing how quickly they have transitioned from being frenemies to awkward flatmates to _this_. Stiles will tell Jackson about what really happened last night, eventually, but right now he needs to collect his own thoughts first, which are a haphazard mess, strewn all over the place. And this damn persistent headache is certainly not making his job any easier.

Lydia calls from the airport around noon. Stiles makes Jackson lie that he is still sleeping. After they hang up Jackson tells him that Lydia said she was sorry she couldn't be there when he woke up. Stiles is just sad they even have a reason to worry about him. He does not want to be a burden to anyone, least of all the people he cares about. He has always been strong all his life, not easily bent or hurt, even as a kid he barely cried - he has always been able to take care of himself, something his mom had taken great pride in. He was tough, and his mom had known it; which is why she had asked him, barely twelve then, to always take care of his dad after she was gone, that he would be stronger and braver for both of them. And he had promised her that, choking back on tears, as she attempted to raise a trembling hand to wipe his tears and he had to lean down close enough for her to be able to do that because she didn't even have enough strength left to lift one arm high enough to reach his face. When she finally passed away, he cried only once.

Today he feels like if his mom were still alive, she would shake her head in disappointment at what he has become - a weak, needy mess. This is surely not what she would have imagined her son growing up into, as she lay slowly dying on her bed, thinking about how Stiles would have to grow up without a mother, how she would never attend his graduation like every other proud parent, how she would never be there to guide him through the many heartbreaks and disappointments in love and life, never watch him find love and happiness at the end, or settle down and have a family of his own, never hear the voice of her first grandchild. Instead leaving an incredible burden to bear all his life, a gaping hole in his heart - because she knew that if anyone could make it, it was her son. Stiles.

He breaks down sobbing - bitter, frustrated tears rolling down his face - as Jackson cradles him and hushes him. He tells Jackson everything, lays it all out bare - about how he met Derek, all his thoughts about him (even some of the inappropriate ones, to which Jackson only snorts and blushes a bit), and especially about last night, the sordid events of which now loom over everything Stiles _cannot_ lose like a perpetual storm-cloud, threatening to rain down lightning and hail at any moment. Stiles is confused, however, when there is none of the horror, disgust or even shock he expects to show on Jackson's face. In fact, Jackson's expression does not even change as he listens intently - which Stiles thinks is even worse. No reaction is the absolute worst when you are expecting something huge to happen at any moment. Stiles can deal with most stuff, but _this_ he has no idea how to even interpret. Which is why he is so not prepared for it when Jackson suddenly pulls him into a tight hug, literally squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"Everyone makes mistakes," Jackson says, heaving out a small puff of air. "But we move on. Mistakes, they should never hold us back, you know. Take a lesson from them, yes, but move ahead wiser. You understand, Stiles? Don't let this one stupid decision ruin everything good that can and will happen to you."

Stiles listens, stunned for a moment, before he nods into Jackson's shoulder, sniffing, wondering how it has turned out that Jackson is being the _mature_ one here, giving him life advice and all that while he has turned into a big bawling baby.

"You should probably have a long talk with Derek one of these days, though," Jackson says as they finally let go. "Nothing will change if he doesn't hear you actually say all the stuff you said just now."

"I know," Stiles admits, nodding. "And you should probably go and change your T-shirt now because I think I left a small puddle of snot on your- "

"_Nooo!"_ This time Jackson does look absolutely horrified. "Tell me you didn't, Stiles- oh my god, gross! No...this is my favourite T-shirt, dude! Why would you do that!"

The brief moment Stiles spends laughing is, for him, like a fleeting ray of sunlight on an otherwise overcast day, because very soon he has to worry about what he should say to Derek, because this is most definitely not one of those times when he can simply choose to ignore the problem until it eventually goes away. God, how he _loves_ those times! The very thought, however, is so beyond horrifying that he can only feel panic rising everytime he so much as picks up his phone with the intention of calling Derek. Eventually Jackson grows tired of his indecision and timidity and, perhaps out of sheer pity, makes the overwhelming decision for him: get some rest for now, think about what exactly he wants to say, and then say it in person tomorrow.

He only regrets listening to Jackson's advice later at night, as his mind races with a million different thoughts on what to say to Derek tomorrow, _how_ to say it, what Derek's reaction might be (which accounts for roughly 99.9% of the sum total of his worries). He doesn't get a wink of sleep.

**~ooo0ooo~**

"You know it's all in your head," Jackson points out hardly amused as Stiles sits miserably fretting in the kitchen the following morning. "What I'm saying is," he turns around from the counter to face Stiles, who can hardly bring himself to believe that he is actually being lectured by an apron-clad, spatula-brandishing Jackson first thing on a Monday morning, "don't worry so much. It's not like you have to tell him _everything_. Just explain the drunk-texting and spare him the- the other stuff with..._Ricky_?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Eric."

"Right, the other stuff with Eric. It's not like you guys are together _yet_ anyway, so it's still, you know..."

"I think I should just tell him all of it," Stiles says, staring down into his coffee. "I mean he _deserves_ to know, right? If- If- "

Jackson places the spatula firmly down on the counter. "Look, do you want to go ahead and ruin any chance at all you still might have with him? I just don't want to see you even more broken than you are right now, okay? Like this damn apartment hasn't got a whole lot more depressing in the past few days. If you want, you can always tell him later, when you are both comfortable or whatever. Just...you know, spare yourself the heartbreak today."

"I think breakfast is burning," Stiles observes, wrinkling his nose at the sudden smell of burned bacon quickly filling the kitchen.

Jackson instantly whips back around and lets out a frustrated grunt, holding up a blackened strip of meat in the spatula and turning around to show it to Stiles, whose fault it apparently is that breakfast is burnt.

Perfect. Just, perfect.

**~ooo0ooo~**

Stiles has so far never dreaded anything in his life more than his impending talk with Derek sometime today - not even the time he had to inform Sandra Jennings, his grouchy spinster neighbour of 82 back at Beacon Hills, that he had accidently run over one of her cats that had been sunbathing on their driveway as he backed up his jeep. And that had most definitely been one freakish hell of an incident, when Sandra had burst out sobbing right on her front porch, drawing the attention of everyone on their street. Stiles, horrified, had tried to calm her down which had only made the situation so much worse. Sandra had mourned over her dead cat for nearly two weeks after that and Stiles' dad had made him apologise atleast a thousand times, besides mowing her lawn for several months and carrying over atleast a dozen different casseroles with even more apologies. Personally, Stiles has always had a really strong suspicion that Sandra had only been faking it, making the most of an unfortunate, yes, but completely insignificant accident. Besides, Stiles has never _ever_ seen her being nice to her numerous feline pets, like petting them or something that would give off the impression that she actually cared about them. She was always scolding and reprimanding them, all day long.

Okay...now he's just being nervous and rambling endlessly. Which is another matter of grave concern, because he usually has no control over his mouth when he is so agitated. He's gonna make an already bad situation even worse if he loses it in front of Derek, who's probably never going to want to talk to him after that. But Stiles can't help it that his already negligible brain to mouth filter completely disappears the moment he finds himself in a difficult situation. It's how he copes; it's how he keeps the panic attacks from surfacing, keeps them at bay. Everyone else just finds it weird though, besides his dad and Scott, who both seem to have somehow buffered up on an inexhaustible amount of patience over the years when it comes to his blabbering.

Stiles decides that it would be best - both for him and Derek, but especially for him - if he gets to meet Derek before they inevitably meet during his lecture later in the afternoon. Which is why he skips his first class of the day, Rhetoric and Prosody, and goes hunting for Derek's office, which he has absolutely no idea where to even begin looking for. For the most part, the contradicting directions he receives end up confusing him to no end, besides sending him running all around the block in circles, but eventually he manages to stumble into the right floor and down the right corridor - because twenty minutes since his quest began, he finds himself standing in front of a heavy mahogany door, above which is embossed on the brass metallic name-plate:

_Prof. Derek Hale_

_Department of English._

Stiles takes a deep breath in, trying to calm his flailing nerves, and proceeds toward the looming entrance, to his highly probable demise. However, before he can even take another step forward, a giant aluminium ladder is suddenly propped up right in front of the door and a man in work overalls starts climbing it, and upon reaching about eye level with the name-plate above the door, produces a screwdriver out of his front pouch and begins to unscrew it. All this Stiles bears witness to without a single strain of comprehension dawning upon him - mouth slightly agap as though he were in the process of actually beginning to say something and his face a haphazard agglomeration of a myriad of expressions, most of them variations of confusion, suspicion and doubt.

It is only when the man has successfully undone one screw and the brass plate now swivels downward hinged on just one more bolt, which the man on the ladder has already begun unscrewing, that Stiles feels a sudden surge of panic rise within him, forcing him to suddenly speak out, having been jolted out of his trance-like state.

"Hey, uh, why are you removing Professor Derek Hale's name-plate?" he says, barely concealing the slight tremor in his voice. "Has his office been relocated? If so, can you kindly point me in the direction of his new office? I need to see him right now because I just have so many things I should have told him from the beginning but I couldn't. And now, I have to tell him. Right now. Where's he gone? Have you seen him arrive or leave? This morning? You must know where he's gone, right? Oh my god. He couldn't have gone very far though..."

Stiles realises that he is talking a mile a minute, out of breath, and the man on the ladder is looking at him with this look on his face, one usually reserved for use during encounters with the frighteningly bizarre or the absolutely ridiculous. Either way, it manages to put an immediate halt to Stiles' babbling, because he knows exactly what the man is thinking behind that look. Stiles takes a series of deep breaths and succeeds in calming himself down enough to not begin spewing out another endless barage of words yet again.

"He's inside," the man says, looking a little shaken. He climbs down the ladder, moves it out of the way, and swings the door inward.

With a pounding heart being the least of his worries right now, Stiles enters the room, each tentative step forward bringing him closer to the figure that stands at the table on the far end of the room, back turned towards him. For a brief fleeting moment, Stiles has to stop in his tracks and stare - just _stare_, eyes wide, mouth gaping, et al. Because the person standing there - who still has not noticed Stiles' entrance by the way; and if he has, he has obviously chosen to ignore the unsolicited intrusion - is so far removed from the image of Derek Hale etched into his memories that he can't help feeling just a little bit doubtful if it actually is Derek as he nervously clears his throat to announce his presence. Which is also probably why when he speaks out immediately after, his "Derek?" has a huge question mark precauriously hanging at the end.

It _is_ Derek though - clad in jeans and a black leather jacket - Stiles discovers, relieved and panicking at the same time (how the hell is that even possible?), and who instantly tenses and then, as though shaken out of a reverie, hastily starts dropping stuff on the desk into the cardboard box he had been bending over.

"Stiles," he says in calm acknowledgement, without turning around.

Ever experienced one of those times when you rehearse your lines over a million times, trying to get it just right, and then the moment finally comes and you realise that you can't remember anything you wanted to say, and you slowly begin to feel panic rising and the ground too feels like it's starting to slip away from right under your feet? It's definitely one of those moments right now, Stiles realises, and god, how these sort of moments annoy the living crap out of him! They are like the _moments in life_ equivalent of a crash-session of Professor Trelawny's Divinity class - they cast a dark shadow over everything that follows and make it very uncomfortable and tedious for everyone involved.

"Why are you leaving, Derek?" he finally manages to say, swallowing back a sudden surge of emotions. "Is it because of me? I know I've been acting like complete idiot, and Scott told me that I might have come across as being too needy, and I shouldn't have sent you so many texts, I know how you must find them annoying, and the other night- it was one of the worst nights of my life and I hadn't even realised what I had done till I woke up the next morning- "

"Stiles- "

"-and saw all those texts I sent you. God, you must think I'm crazy or something. I don't even know myself, I probably am. But then I got around to thinking about it and realised that I actually meant everything I said, you know, how they say alcohol is like a truth serum or something, atleast in my case- "

"_Stiles!_"

"-it turned out to be so true because I really have fallen for you, Derek, and I can't help how I feel about you, but if you are leaving because of me, you've got to tell me, because I can stop...I- I can pretend like I don't have all these feelings for you, I'll stop texting you- I'll stop bothering you all the time- I- just please don't leave because if you do, I don't think I can ever forgive myself. Derek, just tell me, is it because of m- "

"_STILES!_"

Stiles stutters to a stunned silence, words petering out at his lips, breath hitching as a solitary tear drop traces its way down his flushed cheek, which he does not even attempt to wipe at because his whole body is like completely _frozen_. He's not even embarrassed about his little panic-induced rambling, because he is too busy freaking the hell out, as he sees Derek gripping the edge of the table tight, his knuckles white and shaking, like his life depended on it. Derek pulls in a sharp hiss of air and Stiles, for the first time since he woke up this morning, feels his own worries fade away as he starts taking a few faltering steps toward Derek, who looks like he is having a fit of some sort.

"_Derek?_" he calls out in a tiny, embarrassingly timid voice, and nearly takes a tumble backwards to the floor, steadying himself at the last moment not unlike a clumsy, flailing human rag doll, when Derek suddenly turns around to face him with this really sad, defeated kind of look in his eyes. Stiles gulps down a glob of mild panic and feels himself rooted to the spot, heart pounding in his chest, as he stares at Derek struggling to say something - his lips wobbling but no words coming out.

"Stiles," Derek manages at last, his big blue eyes uncertainly wandering up Stiles' face until they meet Stiles' own fearful brown ones, "I'm trying. I'm trying so hard not to fall for you but you keep making it so difficult for me not to."

There have been several moments in Stiles' life when his inherent inability to prevent his remarkably unrefined kneejerk reactions to sudden, debatably earth-shattering/life-altering developments from unexpectedly seizing control of and thereby proceeding to shamelessly strut across his entire face, have actually worked to his advantage. Atleast everyone knew exactly what his opinion was, then. Not this time, however. The look of utter befuddlement that his own daft goldfish expression inspires on Derek's face is an imprint that he swears he would carry to his grave. Stiles thinks it is funny enough that they were both thrown off by the complete reversal of their own pre-conceived expectations - Stiles by Derek's totally unexpected _confession_, and subsequently Derek by Stiles' unconventional reaction to the news - without the added complication of only fuelling each other's confusion and disbelief the longer they stared at each other.

But this is good. In fact, this is super duper awesomeness meets _the clouds have parted and heavenly rays of sunlight are shining down on us_ kind of good - an absolute rarity in Stiles' at times Amy Winehouse levels of depressive existence so far. Because it is not just in his head anymore. Derek might actually be _falling_ _in love with Stiles_, hard to believe as it may be. Derek actually said those very words! It's like some higher power that had been depriving Stiles of all his much-deserved happy moments all these long years has suddenly grown tired of the game and finally opened up a floodgate of sunshine, rainbow, unicorns and of course all the other goodies that have been tactfully eluding him for so long. His heart is gonna burst with the sudden surge of happiness welling up within him.

Bouyed by these thoughts, a small smile manages to slowly sneak its way into Stiles' face, before long growing into a wide grin that crinkles his eyes and makes his cheeks hurt just a little, but he can't help it.

"Oh my god, you actually like me!" he cries out, rubbing his cheeks furiously. "Holy crrrap, how does that even work? You actually _like_ me, Derek!"

"Uh, yeah, I guess I do," Derek says blankly, letting out an unamused bark of a laugh at the end.

"_No!_" Stiles insists, his mind already racing toward catatonic levels of freaking out, and Derek's mouth flies open just a little. "You _actually_ like me, Derek! Like, there is actually a distinct possibility that we might go out on a _real_ date and then come back and have some super hot sex on the cou- "

Derek's mouth actually flies wide open this time with his eyebrows travelling atleast an inch up his forehead, even as Stiles nearly dies of mortification on the spot. Derek, however, recovers quickly, and even quicker, a huge sloppy sexy smile lazily spreads across his face - and it isn't even funny how Stiles' heart rate suddenly quadruples just looking at it.

"That sounds irresistibly tempting..." Derek drawls with a hint of mischief in his voice as he starts ambling slowly toward the yet to be unmortified Stiles, who is having an extremely difficult time keeping himself from fainting right there because- _oh god, Derek asdfghjkl!_ Derek stops just a few inches short of merging into Stiles' only-too-willing body, bringing a hand up to cup Stiles' cheek instead, eliciting a totally normal and cool strangled sound from the back of Stiles' throat. "But we should probably start slow and then go fast and maybe slow down a bit later."

Stiles' mouth opens and closes wordlessly like a fish out of water, and would someone please hand Derek his medal for being the first person on earth to successfully render Stiles speechless. He nods, vigorously. "I can take slow and then fast and maybe slow again," he says breathlessly, not even attempting to smooth over what he actually means by that. And then blurts out before he can stop himself, to his everlasting horror: "If you're the one giving it."

Stiles can see that Derek is struggling too behind that cocky, confident outer layer because he swallows hard and his breath hitches. He apparently has more self-restraint than Stiles though, who is prevented from pouncing on Derek and tearing his clothes off right now only by the power of his own shame and mortification, because he just shakes his head and chuckles softly - which Stiles finds simply too fucking adorable for his own good.

"I'm sure we'll have plenty of time for that later," Derek says, looking deep into his eyes with those hypnotising blue eyes of his, nearly reducing Stiles to a puddle of incoherent goo on the floor in the process. "But right now I just want to thank you for those really insightful texts the other night. They kind of...put things in perspective. So, thank you, Stiles."

If Stiles ever attempted to reply to that, he would probably never remember whatever he had wanted to say, because all of a sudden Derek's warm lips are uncertainly brushing over his, and Stiles is freaking out - do not be fooled by his limp body, it is probably just him going into some kind of shock. Derek curls his hand around the nape of Stiles' neck and slowly, almost fearfully, presses their lips together. Stiles involuntarily responds by letting out an obnoxiously loud moan and runs a hand through Derek's soft black hair, hardly getting enough as he accepts Derek's probing tongue into his mouth.

Which is of course when someone loudly clears his throat at the door and the two of them fly apart in like less than a split-second, shamelessly acting all normal as though they hadn't just been shoving tongues down each other's throats. Well, that's mostly Derek- okay, that's entirely Derek, who gives the man at the door a questioning look, eyebrows raised and all that stuff, not even looking _ruffled_ in the slightest. Only a little distance away, Stiles _stands_- well, technically he is leaning against the back of a chair because he doesn't trust his legs enough to support him right now. So he is _leaning_ against a chair, trying desperately not to look like he is dying right now, because holy shit, Derek _kissed_ him! _Kissed_ as in actually put his smokin' hot, drenched with the sweet mana dew of heaven, lips on his and sucked on them until every single cell in his body abandoned their nature-assigned posts and did a mass flailing around.

"I'm sorry," the man at the door stutters, holding in his hands the name-plate he has successfully managed to unscrew, like a frickin' hunting trophy. Stiles has never wished anyone's asshole to grow tastebuds, because that's just too terrible a fate to condemn even your worst enemies to, but right now he thinks he is quite justified in wishing the man at the door just that for ruining quite undisputedly the best fucking moment of Stiles' life! Stiles tries to impress his curse on the blissfully oblivious man with a mental shaking of fist toward the heavens, followed by a deathly glare directed straight in his direction, which he even more infuriatingly fails to notice as he hurriedly backs away and out the door. Stiles would probably have let out a primordial battle cry and rushed after the man immediately, waving above his head the nearest weapon of murder he could lay his hands on, had Derek not let out a loud, frustrated-sounding sigh right then, effectively banishing all murderous intent from Stiles' head in an instant.

"I'm sorry," Derek says sheepishly, blushing slightly. "I don't know what came over me. "I just- "

"It was fine," Stiles says, trying to sound as unaffected as possible. "I mean, it was more than fine. I hope we can do more of that."

"Yeah, me too," Derek sighs, a nervous look flitting through his eyes. "Is it too late to go on that date we had planned for Friday?" He adds uncertainly, "Maybe?"

"So it _was_ a date?"

"Uh, I guess- "

"I _knew it!_"

"Stiles- "

"Yes, yes, of course I'm more than willing to go on a date with you. A _real_ date this time."

"Friday good?"

"But today's only Monday!"

"So?"

"It's just, you know, I think Friday is like jinxed or somethin'. We should probably one up the meddlesome forces and go out tomorrow."

"You just can't wait till Friday, can you? I'd take you out tomorrow but I won't be free till Friday."

"Hey, by the way, why are you leaving? Did you throw in the towel or somethin'? This kind of jobs usually require real dedication, I know, and I'm not sayin' you lack commitment or anythin' cause I'm sure you are a very commited person, but I also think you are more suited for a spontaneous kind of job rather than a monotonous one, you know, somethin' creative- "

"This job was temporary."

"Oh. Okay, so yeah, that explains a lot."

"Do you really think I'm more suited for...somethin' creative?"

"Yeah. Yes. Like, you know, writing?"

"Thanks."

"What for?"

"Everything, Stiles."

Derek reminds Stiles that he should probably be heading back for his classes, and very reluctantly Stiles trudges back for a lecture on the evolution of the modern drama, leaving Derek to continue packing his stuff. Compared to the events of the morning, the rest of the day pales tastelessly in comparison. A curious observation he makes as he rolls from one lecture to the next is that Eric is absent from all the classes they have in common. He just shrugs it aside, despite being a little annoyed that he can't have the talk with Eric he has planned.

**~ooo0ooo~**

At ten o'clock Stiles receives a call from an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Listen attentively, Stiles," a woman's voice hisses menacingly, and Stiles sits up straight at once. "I have the tape. Do not think that I haven't realised your interest in Derek Hale. Do not, for one second, think you can have him."

"Who is this?" Stiles asks, confused as fuck.

"My name is Kate Argent, Derek's fiancé. Enjoy your moment of happiness while it lasts, Stiles, because I am going to burn it down very soon and as you lay writhing on the ground, I'm gonna douse you in kerosene and set you on fire."

"Woman, you are clearly insane and I am calling the police right now. And by the way, as far as I am aware of, you are Derek's _ex_-fiancé. For such a bitch as you, I don't blame Derek for throwing the noose off his own neck while he still could."

"Not so fast, boy!" the cold voice snarls, sending a real shiver down Stiles' spine. "Remember I have the tape?"

"What tape?" Stiles has to ask, because Kate obviously wants him to ask her that question. The evil chuckle confirms his suspicion.

"Let me jog your memory." There's some sort of clicking sound, and what he hears next horrifies him to his very bones. "_Fuck, keep going, boy!_ ... _Don't stop now! Come on, let's see you blow your load all over that fag's face!"_ The playback stops and Kate's voice takes over, cruel and daunting. "Would you like me to send a copy to Derek? Or will you keep your mouth shut?"

Stiles knows he has no choice. So does Kate.

"Good," she whispers, at Stiles' silence. "As I said, enjoy it while you still can. Good night, _Stiles_. What a weird name."

The phone drops from Stiles' hand and clatters to the floor.


End file.
